e awkward form a trifle more stooped with each succeeding
disappointment. It was two weeks before he reappeared on the mesa,
walking wearily like a man under a load.

"I reckon there's something wrong, ma'am. I come out to see ef yer man
'ud write me a letter. I hadn't been long in Plattsville, but I worked
a spell fer a man named Yarnell; like enough he'd look it up a little. I
ain't much at writin', an' I'd want it all writ out careful like, you
know." The man's voice had the old, uncomplaining monotony.

Joel wrote the letter at once, making the most minute inquiries
regarding Mrs. Brice, and giving every possible direction concerning her
residence. Then Brice fell back into the old groove, working feverishly,
in spite of Mrs. Brandt's kindly warnings.

"I can't stop, ma'am; the settin' 'round 'ud kill me."

The answer came at last, a businesslike epistle, addressed to Joel. Mrs.
Brice had left Plattsville about the time designated. Several of her
neighbors remembered that a stranger, a well-dressed man, had been at
the house for nearly a week before her departure, and the two had gone
away together, taking the Western train. The writer regretted his
inability to give further information, and closed with kindly inquiries
concerning his former employee's health, and earnest commendation of
him to Mr. Brandt.

Joel read the letter aloud, something--some sturdy uprightness of his
own, no doubt--blinding him to its significance.

"Will you read it ag'in, neighbor? I'm not over-quick."

The man's voice was a revelation full of an unutterable hurt, like the
cry of some dumb wounded thing.

And Joel read it again, choking with indignation now at every word.

"Thank ye, neighbor. I'll trouble you to write a line thankin' him;
that's all."

He got up heavily, staggering a little as he crossed the floor, and went
out into the yellow sunlight. There was the long, sun-kissed slope, the
huge pile of twisted roots, the rude shanty with its clambering vines.
The humming of bees in the sage went on drowsily. Life, infinitely
shrunken, was life still. A more cultured grief might have swooned or
cried out. This man knew no such refuge; even the poor relief of
indignation was denied to him. None of the thousand wild impulses that
come to men smitten like him flitted across his clouded brain. He only
knew to take up his burden dumbly and go on. If he had been wiser, could
he have known more?

No one spoke of the blow that h