“Ah, yes,” said the mother, fondly.  “Maizie’s a brave girl and a thrifty one.  We’re comfortable—­and independent, even though the rich grind down the poor.”  Her eyes lighted.  “Wait till Kalloch is elected ... then we’ll see better times, I’ll warrant.”

Robert was too courteous to express his doubts.

Later he discussed the situation with Francisco.  His paper had printed an “expose” of Kalloch, who struck back with bitter personal denunciation of his editorial foes.  “It’s a nasty mess,” Francisco said disgustedly.

“Broderick used to tell my father that politics had always been a rascal’s paradise because decent men wouldn’t run for office—­nor vote half of the time....  I’m going to write an article about it for The Overland.  And Pixley of the Argonaut has given me a chance to do some stories.  I shall be an author pretty soon—­like Harte and Clemens.”

“Or a poet like this Cincinnatus Heinie Miller, whom one hears about.  Fancy such a name.  I should think he’d change it.”

“He has already,” laughed Francisco.  “Calls himself Joaquin—­after Marietta, the bandit.  Joaquin Miller—­rather catchy, isn’t it?  And he’s written some really fine lines.  Showed me one the other day that’s called ‘Columbus.’  It’s majestic.  I tell you that fellow will be famous one day.”

“Pooh!” scoffed Robert; “he’s a poseur—­ought to be an actor, with his long hair and boots and sash....  How is the fair Jeanne?”

Francisco’s face clouded.  “I want her to leave newspaper work and try literature,” he said, “but Jeanne’s afraid to cut loose.  She’s earning her living ... and she’s alone in the world.  No one to fall back on, you know.”

“But she’d make more money at real writing, wouldn’t she?” asked Robert.  “Ever since Harte wrote that thing about ‘The Luck of Roaring Camp,’ which the lady proofreader said was indecent, he’s had offers from the Eastern magazines.  John Carmony’s paying him $5,000 a year to edit the Overland and $100 for each poem or story he writes.”

“Ah, yes, but Bret Harte is a genius.”

“Maybe Jeanne’s another,” Robert ventured.

Francisco laughed ruefully.  “I’ve told her that ... but she says no....  ‘I’m just a woman,’ she insists, ‘and not a very bright one at that.’  She has all kinds of faith in me, but little in herself.”  He made an impatient gesture.  “What can a fellow do?”

Robert looked at him a moment thoughtfully.  “Why not—­marry Jeanne?”

Dull red crept into Francisco’s cheeks.  Then he laughed. 
“Well—­er—­probably she wouldn’t have me.”

“There’s only one way to find out,” his cousin persisted.  “She’s alone ... and you’re soon going to be.  When do your folks start on their ‘second honeymoon,’ as they call it?”

“Oh, that trip around the world—­why, in a month or two.  As soon as father closes out his business.”

“You could have the house then—­you and Jeanne.”