He did not send them money, because he seemed never to have any
money to send, and because they did not ask for any. Dumbly he sensed,
as their handwriting and their spelling improved, that his children were
growing up. But when he thought of them they seemed remote, prattling
youngsters whom Minnie was forever worrying over and who seemed to have
been always under the heels of his horse, or under the wheels of his
wagon, or playing with the pitchfork, or wandering off into the sage
while he and their distracted mother searched for them. For a long
while--how many years Brit could not remember--they had been living in
Los Angeles. Prospering, too, Brit understood. The girl,
Lorraine--Minnie had wanted fancy names for the kids, and Brit
apologized whenever he spoke of them, which was seldom--Lorraine had
written that "Mamma has an apartment house." That had sounded
prosperous, even at the beginning. And as the years passed and their
address remained the same, Brit became fixed in the belief that the Casa
Grande was all that its name implied, and perhaps more. Minnie must be
getting rich.
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