ust 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 t