ing with the Sphinx. He did not desire replies. He was content merely to go on talking, talking.
"Perhaps," he continued, "Linda Joel wouldn't be so interestin' if she didn't 'ave a song in 'er 'eart. If yer meet 'er you can't 'elp likin"er. She's real like. Don' know 'ow to explain it. But I 'ave a feelin' there's somethin' fine about 'er, somethin' goin' to waste. There she is, a won'erful mother an' 'er son lost. A won'erful wife an' 'er 'usband dead. All alone she sits in 'er lonely 'ouse an' waits. For what, I dunno. She's a problem, right enough. But always I go back to 'er, always I continue going back. To sit an' talk to 'er somehow does me good. I'm proud I got 'er friendship. Yet 'ardly anybody else bothers with 'er. She is all alone. She should be back with 'er 'ome folks in Caroliny. Once I even offered to loan 'er the money to go. But she shook 'er 'ead. 'No use,' she said. 'Enoch was born in Chicago. For sixteen year 'e lived on this farm. Benda is buried 'neath a tree at the foot o' the pasture.
This is all the 'ome I got. When I walk
