“Shut up!” cried Bill. And without waiting for a reply he read on, “‘–with discretion. If you treat kids proper they mostly raise themselves, which is jest Natur’. Don’t worry yourself, ’less they fall into a swill-barrel, or do some ridiculous stunt o’ that natur’–an’ don’t worry them. Ther’ ain’t no sense to anybody goin’ around with notions they ken flap their wings, an’ cluck like a broody hen; an’ scratchin’ worms is positive ridiculous. Help ’em when they need help, otherwise let ’em fall around till they knock sense into theirselves. Jest let ’em be kids as long as Natur’ fancies, so’s when they git growed up, which they’re goin’ to do anyways, they’ll likely make elegant men an’ women. Ef you set ’em under glass cases they’ll sure get fixed into things what glass cases is made to hold–that’s images. I don’t guess I kin tell you nothin’ more ’bout kids, seein’ I ain’t a mother, but jest a pot-wolloper.’”
Bill folded the paper as he finished reading, and silently handed it across to the secretary. Somehow he seemed impressed with the information the paper contained. The whole meeting seemed impressed. Even Sandy had no comment to offer, while Toby resorted to biting his forefinger and gazing stupidly at the opposite wall. It was Sunny who finally broke the silence.
“Guess I’ll jest writ’ out the chief points fer Zip’s guidance?” he asked.
Bill nodded.
“That’s it, sure,” he agreed. “Jest the chief points. Then you’ll hand it to Zip to-morrer mornin’, an’, ef he needs it, you can explain wot he ain’t wise to. I’d like to say right here that this hash-slinger has got savvee. Great big savvee, an’ a heap of it. I ain’t a hell of a lot on the kid racket, they mostly make me sick to death. In a manner o’ speakin’, I don’t care a cuss for Zip nor his kids. Ef they drown theirselves in a swill-bar’l it’s his funeral, an’ their luck, an’ it don’t cut no ice with me. But, cuss me, ef I ken stand to see a low-down skunk like this yer James come it over a feller-citizen o’ Suffering Creek, an’ it’s our duty to see Zip gits thro’. I’m sore on James. Sore as hell. I ain’t no Bible-thumpin’, mush-hearted, push-me-amongst-the-angels feller anyways. An’ you boys has got to git right on to that, quick.” He glared round at his friends defiantly, as though daring them to do otherwise. But as nobody gave a sign of doubt on the subject, he had no alternative but to continue. “I’m jest sore on James an’–” He hesitated for the fraction of a second, but went on almost immediately. “–ther’ may come a time when the play gits busy. Get me? Wal,” as Sandy and Sunny nodded assent, and Toby sat all eyes for the speaker, “this yere Trust is a goin’ concern, an’, I take it, we mean business. So, though we ain’t runnin’ a noospaper, maybe we’ll need a fightin’ editor after all. If we need a fightin’ editor we’ll sure need a fightin’ staff. That’s jest logic. I’ll ast you right here, is you boys that fightin’ staff? If so, guess I’m fightin’ editor. How?”
His eyes were on Sunny Oak. And that individual’s unwashed face broadened into a cheerful grin.
“Fightin’ don’t come under the headin’ of work–proper,” he said. “Guess I’m in.”
Bill turned on Sandy.
“You ain’t got the modest beauty o’ the vi’let,” he said, with saturnine levity. “How you feelin’?”
“Sure good,” exclaimed the widower. “But I’d feel better lettin’ air into the carkis of James.”
“Good,” muttered Bill. “An’ you, Toby?” he went on, turning on the “remittance” man. “You’re a heap fat, an’ need somethin’ to get it down. How you fancy things?”
“I’d as lief scrap ’side these scalliwags as ag’in ’em,” he replied, indicating his companions with an amiable grin.
Bill nodded.
“This yere Trust is a proper an’ well-found enterprise,” he said gravely. “As fer Minky, I guess we can count him in most anything that ain’t dishonest. So–wal, this is jest precautions. Ther’s nuthin’ doin’ yet. But you see,” he added, with a shadowy grin, “life’s mostly chock-full of fancy things we don’t figger on, an’ anyway I can’t set around easy when folks gets gay. I’ll be back to hum day after to-morrer, or the next day, an’, meanwhiles, you’ll see things are right with Zip. An’ don’t kep far away from Minky’s store when strangers is around. Minky’s a good friend o’ mine, an’ a good friend to most o’ you, so–well, guns is good med’cine ef folks git gay, an’ are yearnin’ to handle dust what ain’t theirs.”
“Them strangers?” suggested Sandy. “Is–?”
Bill shrugged.
“Strangers is strangers, an’ gold-dust is gold-dust,” he said shrewdly. “An’ when the two git together ther’s gener’ly a disease sets in that guns is the best med’cine for. That’s ’bout all.”
CHAPTER XVI
ZIP’S GRATITUDE
What a complicated machinery human nature is! It seems absurd that a strongly defined character should be just as full of surprises as the weakest; that the fantastic, the unexpected, even the illogical, are as surely found in the one as in the other. It would be so nice, so simple and easy, to sit down and foreshadow a certain course of action for a certain individual under a given stress; and to be sure that, in human psychology, two and two make precisely four, no more and no less.
But such is not the case. In human psychology two and two can just as easily make ten, or fifteen, or any other number; and prophecy in the matter is about as great a waste of time as worrying over the possibilities of the weather. The constitution of the nervous system cannot be estimated until put to the test. And when the first test has revealed to us the long-awaited secret, it is just as likely to be flatly contradicted by the second. The whole thing is the very mischief.
Those who knew him would have been quite certain that in Scipio’s case there could only be one result from the addition of the two and two of his psychology. In a man of his peculiar mental caliber it might well seem that there could be no variation to the sum. And the resulting prophecy would necessarily be an evil, or at least a pessimistic one. He was so helpless, so lacking in all the practicalities of human life. He seemed to have one little focus that was quite incapable of expansion, of adaptability. That focus was almost entirely filled by his Jessie’s image, with just a small place in it reserved for his twins. Take the woman out of it, and, to all intents and purposes, he looked out upon a dead white blank.
Every thought in his inadequate brain was centered round his wife. She was the mainspring of his every emotion. His love for her was his whole being. It was something so great and strong that it enveloped all his senses. She was his, and he was incapable of imagining life without her. She was his, and only death could alter so obvious a fact. She was his vanguard in life’s battle, a support that shored up his confidence and courage to face, with a calm determination, whatever that battle had to offer him.
But with Jessie’s going all prophecy would have remained unfulfilled. Scipio did not go under in the manner to have been expected of him. After the first shock, outwardly at least, there appeared to be no change in him. His apparently colorless personality drifted on in precisely the same amiable, inconsequent manner. What his moments of solitude were, only he knew. The agony of grief through which he passed, the long sleepless nights, the heartbreaking sense of loss, these things lay hidden under his meaningless exterior, which, however, defied the revelation of his secret.
After the passing of the first madness which had sent him headlong in pursuit of his wife, a sort of mental evolution set in. That unadaptable focus of his promptly became adaptable. And where it had been incapable of expansion, it slowly began to expand. It grew, and, whereas before his Jessie had occupied full place, his twins now became the central feature.
The original position was largely reversed, but it was chiefly the growth of the images of his children, and not the diminishing of the figure of his wife. And with this new aspect came calmness. Nothing could change his great love for his erring Jessie, nothing could wipe out his sense of loss; his grief was always with him. But whereas, judged by the outward seeming of his character, he should have been crushed under Fate’s cruel blow, an inverse process seemed to have set in. He was lifted, exalted to the almost sublime heights where his beacon-fire of duty shone.
Yes, but the whole thing was so absurdly twisted. The care of his children occupied his entire time now, so that his work, in seeking that which was required to support them, had to be entirely neglected. He had fifty dollars between him and starvation for his children. Nor could he see his way to earning more. The struggles of his unpractical mind were painful. It was a problem quite beyond him. He struggled nobly with it, but he saw no light ahead, and, with that curious singleness of purpose that was his, he eventually abandoned the riddle, and devoted his whole thought to the children. Any other man would probably have decided to hire himself out to work on the claims of other men, and so hope to earn sufficient to hire help in the care of the twins, but not so Scipio. He believed that their future well-being lay in his claim. If that could not be worked, then there was no other way.
He had just finished clearing up his hut, and the twins were busy with their games outside in the sun, aided by their four-legged yellow companion, whose voice was always to be heard above their excited squabblings and laughter. So Sunny Oak found things when he slouched up to the hut with the result of the Trust’s overnight meeting in his pocket.
The loafer came in with a grin of good-nature on his perspiring and dirty face. He was feeling very self-righteous. It was pleasant to think he was doing a good work. So much so that the effort of doing it did not draw the usual protest from him.
He glanced about him with a tolerant eye, feeling that henceforth, under the guidance of the Trust he represented, Scipio’s condition would certainly be improved. But somehow his mental patronage received a quiet set-back. The hut looked so different. There was a wholesome cleanliness about it that was quite staggering. Sunny remembered it as it was when he had last seen it under his régime, and the contrast was quite startling. Scipio might be incapable of organization, but he certainly could scour and scrub.
Sunny raked at his beard with his unclean finger-nails. Yes, Zip must have spent hours of unremitting labor on the place since he had seen it last.
However, he lost no time in carrying out his mission.
“Kind o’ busy, Zip?” he greeted the little man pleasantly.
Scipio raised a pair of shadowed eyes from the inside of the well-scoured fry-pan he was wiping.
“I’m mostly through fixin’ these chores–for awhiles,” he replied quietly. Then he nodded in the direction of the children’s voices. “Guess I’m goin’ to take the kiddies down to the creek to clean ’em. They need cleanin’ a heap.”
Sunny nodded gravely. He was thinking of those things he had so carefully written out.
“They sure do,” he agreed. “Bath oncet a week. But not use a hand-scrubber, though,” he added, under a wave of memory. “Kids is tender skinned,” he explained.
“Pore little bits,” the father murmured tenderly. Then he went on more directly to his visitor. “But they do need washin’. It’s kind o’ natural fer kids to fancy dirt. After that,” he went on, his eyes drifting over to a pile of dirty clothes stacked on a chair, “I’ll sure have to do a bit of washing.” He set the frying-pan down beside the stove and moved over to the clothes, picking up the smallest pair of child’s knickers imaginable. They were black with dirt, and he held them up before Sunny’s wondering eyes and smiled pathetically. “Ridic’lous small,” he said, with an odd twist of his pale lips. “Pore little gal.” Then his scanty eyebrows drew together perplexedly, and that curious expression of helplessness that was his crept into his eyes. “Them frills an’ bits git me some,” he said in a puzzled way. “Y’see, I ain’t never used an iron much, to speak of. It’s kind of awkward using an iron.”
Sunny nodded. Somehow he wished he knew something about using an iron. Birdie had said nothing about it.
“Guess you hot it on the stove,” he hazarded, after a moment’s thought.
“Yes, I’d say you hot it,” agreed Scipio. “It’s after that.”
“Yes.” Sunny found himself thinking hard. “You got an iron?” he inquired presently.
“Sure–two.” Scipio laid the knickers aside. “You hot one while you use the other.”
Sunny nodded again.
“You see,” the other went on, considering, “these pretties needs washin’ first. Well, then I guess they need to dry. Now, ’bout starch? ’Most everything needs starch. At least, ther’ always seems to be starch around washing-time. Y’see, I ain’t wise to starch.”
“Blamed if I am either,” agreed Sunny. Then his more practical mind asserted itself. “Say, starch kind o’ fixes things hard, don’t it?” he inquired.
“It sure does.”
Scipio was trying to follow out his companion’s train of thought.
Sunny suddenly sat down on the edge of the table and grinned triumphantly.
“Don’t use it,” he cried, with finality. “You need to remember kiddies is tender skinned, anyway. Starch’ll sure make ’em sore.”
Scipio brightened.
“Why, yes,” he agreed, with relief. “I didn’t jest think about that. I’m a heap obliged, Sunny. You always seem to help me out.”
The flush of pleasure which responded to the little man’s tribute was quite distinguishable through the dirt on the loafer’s face.
“Don’t mention it,” he said embarrassedly. “It’s easy, two thinkin’ together. ’Sides, I’ve tho’t a heap ’bout things since–since I started to fix your kiddies right. Y’see, it ain’t easy.”
“No, it just ain’t. That is, y’see, I ain’t grumbling,” Scipio went on hurriedly, lest his meaning should be mistaken. “If you’re stuck on kiddies, like me, it don’t worry you nuthin’. Kind of makes it pleasant thinkin’ how you can fix things fer ’em, don’t it? But it sure ain’t easy doing things just right. That’s how I mean. An’ don’t it make you feel good when you do fix things right fer ’em? But I don’t guess that comes often, though,” he added, with a sigh. “Y’see, I’m kind of awkward. I ain’t smart, like you or Bill.”
“Oh, Bill’s real smart,” Sunny began. Then he checked himself. He was to keep Bill’s name out of this matter, and he just remembered it in time. So he veered round quickly. “But I ain’t smart,” he declared. “Anything I know I got from a leddy friend. Y’see, women-folk knows a heap ’bout kiddies, which, I ’lows, is kind o’ natural.”
He fumbled in his pocket and drew out several sheets of paper. Arranging them carefully, he scanned the scrawling writing on them.
“Guess you’re a scholar, so I won’t need to read what I writ down here. Mebbe you’ll be able to read it yourself. I sure ’low the spellin’ ain’t jest right, but you’ll likely understand it. Y’see, the writin’s clear, which is the chief thing. I was allus smart with a pen. Now, this yer is jest how our–my–leddy frien’ reckons kids needs fixin’. It ain’t reasonable to guess everything’s down ther’. They’re jest sort o’ principles which you need to foller. Maybe they’ll help you some. Guess if you foller them reg’lations your kids’ll sure grow proper.”
He handed the papers across, and Scipio took them only too willingly. His thanks, his delight, was in the sudden lighting up of his whole face. But he did not offer a verbal expression of his feelings until he had read down the first page. Then he looked up with eyes that were almost moist with gratitude.
“Say,” he began, “I can’t never tell you how ’bliged I am, Sunny. These things have bothered me a whole heap. It’s kind of you, Sunny, it is, sure. I’m that obliged I–”
“Say,” broke in the loafer, “that sort o’ talk sort o’ worrits my brain. Cut it out.” Then he grinned. “Y’see, I ain’t used to thinkin’ hard. It’s mostly in the natur’ o’ work, an’–well, work an’ me ain’t been friends for years.”
But Scipio was devouring the elaborated information Sunny had so laboriously set out. The loafer’s picturesque mind had drawn heavily on its resources, and Birdie’s principles had undergone a queer metamorphosis. So much so, that she would now have had difficulty in recognizing them. Sunny watched him reading with smiling interest. He was looking for those lights and shades which he hoped his illuminating phraseology would inspire. But Scipio was in deadly earnest. Phraseology meant nothing to him. It was the guidance he was looking for and devouring hungrily. At last he looked up, his pale eyes glowing.
“That’s fine,” he exclaimed, with such a wonderful relief that it was impossible to doubt his appreciation. Then he glanced round the room. He found some pins and promptly pinned the sheets on the cupboard door. Then he stood back and surveyed them. “You’re a good friend, Sunny,” he said earnestly. “Now I can’t never make a mistake. There it is all wrote ther’. An’ when I ain’t sure ’bout nothing, why, I only jest got to read what you wrote. I don’t guess the kiddies can reach them there. Y’see, kiddies is queer ’bout things. Likely they’d get busy tearing those sheets right up, an’ then wher’d I be? I’ll start right in now on those reg’lations, an’ you’ll see how proper the kiddies’ll grow.” He turned and held out his hand to his benefactor. “I’m ’bliged, Sunny; I sure can’t never thank you enough.”
Sunny disclaimed such a profusion of gratitude, but his dirty face shone with good-natured satisfaction as he gripped the little man’s hand. And after discussing a few details and offering a few suggestions, which, since the acceptance of his efforts, seemed to trip off his tongue with an easy confidence which surprised even himself, he took his departure. And he left the hut with the final picture of Scipio, still studying his pages of regulations with the earnestness of a divinity student studying his Bible, filling his strongly imaginative brain. He felt good. He felt so good that he was sorry there was nothing more to be done until Wild Bill’s return.
CHAPTER XVII
JESSIE’S LETTER
Scipio’s long day was almost over. The twins were in bed, and the little man was lounging for a few idle moments in the doorway of his hut. Just now an armistice in his conflict of thought was declared. For the moment the exigencies of his immediate duties left him floundering in the wilderness of his desolate heart at the mercy of the pain of memory. All day the claims of his children had upborne him. He had had little enough time to think of anything else, and thus, with his peculiar sense of duty militating in his favor, he had found strong support for the burden of his grief.
But now with thought and muscles relaxed, and the long night stretching out its black wings before him, the gray shadow had risen uppermost in his mind once more, and a weight of unutterable loneliness and depression bore down his spirit.
His faded eyes were staring out at the dazzling reflections of the setting sun upon the silvery crests of the distant mountain peaks. In every direction upon the horizon stretched the wonderful fire of sunset. Tongues of flame, steely, glowing, ruddy, shot up and athwart the picture in ever-changing hues before his unseeing eyes. It was all lost upon him. He stared mechanically, while his busy brain struggled amongst a tangle of memories and thought pictures. The shadows of his misfortune were hard besetting him.
Amidst his other troubles had come a fresh realization which filled him with something like panic. He had been forced to purchase stores for his household. To do so he had had to pay out the last of his fourth ten-dollar bill. His exchequer was thus reduced to ten dollars. Ten dollars stood between him and starvation for his children. Nor could he see the smallest prospect of obtaining more. His imagination was stirred. He saw in fancy the specter of starvation looming, hungrily stretching out its gaunt arms, clutching at his two helpless infants. He had no thought for himself. It did not occur to him that he, too, must starve. He only pictured the wasting of the children’s round little bodies, he heard their weakly whimperings at the ravages of hunger’s pangs. He saw the tottering gait as they moved about, unconscious of the trouble that was theirs, only knowing that they were hungry. Their requests for food rang in his ears, maddening him with the knowledge of his helplessness. He saw them growing weaker day by day. He saw their wondering, wistful, uncomprehending eyes, so bright and beautiful now, growing bigger and bigger as their soft cheeks fell away. He–
He moved nervously. He shifted his position, vainly trying to rid himself of the haunting vision. But panic was upon him. Starvation–that was it. Starvation! God! how terrible was the thought. Starvation! And yet, before–before Jessie had gone he had been no better off. He had had only fifty dollars. But somehow it was all different then. She was there, and he had had confidence. Now–now he had none. Then she was there to manage, and he was free to work upon his claim.
Ah, his claim. That was it. The claim lay idle now with all its hidden wealth. How he wanted that wealth which he so believed to be there. No, he could not work his claim. The children could not be left alone all day. That was out of the question. They must be cared for. How–how?
His brain grew hot, and he broke out into a sweat. His head drooped forward until his unshaven chin rested upon his sunken chest. His eyes were lusterless, his two rough hands clenched nervously. Just for one weak moment he longed for forgetfulness. He longed to shut out those hideous visions with which he was pursued. He longed for peace, for rest from the dull aching of his poor torn heart. His courage was at a low ebb. Something of the nature of the hour had got hold of him. It was sundown. There was the long black night between him and the morrow. He felt so helpless, so utterly incapable.
But his moment passed. He raised his head. He stood erect from the door casing. He planted his feet firmly, and his teeth gritted. The spirit of the man rose again. He must not give way. He would not. The children should not starve while there was food in the world. If he had no money, he had two strong hands and–
He started. A sudden noise behind him turned him facing about with bristling nerves. What was it? It sounded like the falling of a heavy weight. And yet it did not sound like anything big. The room was quite still, and looked, in the growing dusk, just the same as usual.
Suddenly the children leapt into his thought, and he started for the inner room. But he drew up short as he passed behind the table. A large stone was lying at his feet, and a folded paper was tied about it. He glanced round at the window and–understood.
He stooped and picked the missile up. Then he moved to the window and looked out. There was no one about. The evening shadows were rapidly deepening, but he was sure there was no one about. He turned back to the door where there was still sufficient light for his purposes. He sat down upon the sill with the stone in his hand. He was staring at the folded paper.
Yes, he understood. And instinctively he knew that the paper was to bring him fresh disaster. He knew it was a letter. And he knew whence it came.
At last he looked up. The mystery of the letter remained. It was there in his hand, waiting the severing of the string that held it, but somehow as yet he lacked the courage to read it. And so some moments passed. But at last he sighed and looked at it again. Then he reached round to his hip for his sheath-knife. The stone dropped to the ground, and with it the outer covering of the letter. With trembling fingers he unfolded the notepaper.
Yes, it was as he expected, as he knew, a letter from Jessie. And as he read it his heart cried out, and the warm blood in his veins seemed to turn to water. He longed for the woman whose hand had penned those words as he had never longed for anything in his life. All the old wound was ruthlessly torn open, and it was as though a hot, searing iron had been thrust into its midst. He cared nothing for what she had done or was. He wanted her.
It was a letter full of pathetic pleading for the possession of Vada. It was not a demand. It was an appeal. An appeal to all that was his better nature. His honesty, his manliness, his simple unselfishness. It was a letter thrilling with the outpourings of a mother’s heart craving for possession of the small warm life that she had been at such pains to bestow. It was the mother talking to him as he had never heard the wife and woman talk. There was a passion, a mother love in the hastily scrawled words that drove straight to the man’s simple heart. One little paragraph alone set his whole body quivering with responsive emotion, and started the weak tears to his troubled eyes.
“Let me have her, Zip. Let me have her. Maybe I’ve lost my right, but I’m her mother. I brought her into the world, Zip. And what that means you can never understand. She’s my flesh and blood. She’s part of me. I gave her the life she’s got. I’m her mother, Zip, and I’ll go mad without her.”
He read and re-read the letter. He would have read it a third time, but the tears blinded his eyes and he crushed it into his pocket. His heart yearned for her. It cried out to him in a great pity. It tore him so that he was drawn to words spoken aloud to express his feelings.
“Poor gal,” he murmured. “Poor gal. Oh, my Jessie, what you done–what you done?”
He dashed a hand across his eyes to wipe away the mist of tears that obscured his vision and stood up. He was face to face with a situation that might well have confounded him. But here, where only his heart and not his head was appealed to, there was no confusion.
The woman had said he could not understand. She had referred to her motherhood. But Scipio was a man who could understand just that. He could understand with his heart, where his head might have failed him. He read into the distracted woman’s letter a meaning that perhaps no other man could have read into it. He read a human soul’s agony at the severing of itself from all that belonged to its spiritual side. He read more than the loss of the woman’s offspring. He read the despairing thought, perhaps unconscious, of a woman upon whom repentance has begun its work. And his simple heart went out to her, yearning, loving. He knew that her appeal was granted even before he acknowledged it to himself.
And strangely enough the coming of that letter–he did not pause to think how it had come–produced a miraculous change in him. His spirit rose thrilling with hope, and filled with a courage which, but a few moments before, seemed to have gone from him forever. He did not understand, he did not pause to think. How could he? To him she was still his Jessie, the love and hope of his life. It was her hand that had penned that letter. It was her woman’s heart appealing to his mercy.
“God in heaven,” he cried, appealing to the blue vault above him in which the stars were beginning to appear. “I can’t refuse her. I just can’t. She wants her so–my poor, poor Jessie.”
It was late in the evening when Scipio returned from the camp driving Minky’s buckskin mule and ancient buckboard. His mind was made up. He would start out directly after breakfast on the morrow. He had resorted to a pitiful little subterfuge in borrowing Minky’s buckboard. He had told the storekeeper that he had heard of a prospect some distance out, and he wanted to inspect it. He said he intended to take Vada with him, but wished to leave Jamie behind. Minky, as a member of the Trust, had promptly lent him the conveyance, and volunteered to have Jamie looked after down at the store by Birdie until he returned. So everything was made easy for him, and he came back to his home beyond the dumps with the first feeling of contentment he had experienced since his wife had deserted him.
Having made the old mule snug for the night on the leeward side of the house, he prepared to go to bed. There was just one remaining duty to perform, however, before he was free to do so. He must set things ready for breakfast on the morrow. To this end he lit the lamp.
In five minutes his preparations were made, and, after one final look round, he passed over to the door to secure it. He stood for a moment drinking in the cool night air. Yes, he felt happier than he had done for days. Nor could he have said why. It was surely something to do with Jessie’s letter, and yet the letter seemed to offer little enough for hope.
He was going to part with Vada, a thought which filled him with dismay, and yet there was hope in his heart. But then where the head might easily enough fail his heart had accepted responsibility. There was a note in the woman’s appeal which struck a responsive chord in his own credulous heart, and somehow he felt that his parting with Vada was not to be for long. He felt that Jessie would eventually come back to him. He felt, though he did not put the thought into words, that no woman could feel as she did about her children, and be utterly dead to all the old affection that had brought them into the world.
He turned away at last. The air was good to breathe to-night, the world was good after all. Yes, it was better than he had thought it. There was much to be done to-morrow, so he would “turn in.”
It was at that moment that something white lying at his feet caught his eye. Instantly he remembered it, and, stooping, picked it up. How strange it was the difference of his feelings as he lifted the outer wrapping of Jessie’s letter now. There was something almost reverent in the way he handled the paper.
He closed the door and secured it, and went across to the lamp, where he stood looking down at the stained and dirty covering. He turned it over, his thoughts abstracted and busy with the woman who had folded it ready for its journey to him. Yes, she had folded it, she had sent it, she–