n' axed me who it was for. With as straight a face as
if I was lookin' a corpse in the eyes, I p'inted out Hardcastle's
house an' tol' 'im to take it thar. Then I writ with a pencil on
the kiver these words, 'Please restore missin' buttons and stitch
up holes.' Then what did I do but hike back to the store an' set
an' wait. Miss Julia sent the stuff a-whizzin' to Jim by a nigger
woman that works for her folks. The things was all tousled up in a
big basket, an' she fetched along a note that made Jim turn as
white as a cake o' tallow. He left me in charge an' run over an'
explained matters to the best of his ability, but it's the talk of
the town, an' not a soul has suspicioned me. If you don't want to
git knocked flat you'd better not mention a steam laundry in Jim's
presence.

"J. W."

CHAPTER X

Alfred Henley was coming home. Jim Cahews announced it one morning to a
cluster of farmers and chronic loungers at the store, and the news
rapidly spread through the village and country-side, and various
comments were made. He was going to do a man's part and try to put up
with the cranky woman he had married, said the men. He was heartily
ashamed of himself, said the women. He had got over his silly pout and
was coming home to make amends for his conduct in living so long away
from a woman who had shown such beautiful constancy to her first and,
perhaps--as it looked now--only love.

Dixie Hart heard the report on her way to the post-office, and, needing
a spool of cotton, she went into the store.

"Yes, he's headed this way," was Cahews's confirmation of the news. "The
truth is, Miss Dixie, if I'm any judge of a man's letters, Alf's
actually homesick. He wants the mountains he was fetched up in. He
writes about his lonely days and nights, when his speculations don't
keep him busy, an' says they don't have anything out thar but pesky
north winds an' sand-storms. He might have stayed away longer, as it
was, but one little thing I wrote him turned the scale. You know that
measly ten-cent circus that was to show here last month got stranded.
The performers all quit and footed it home, an' the sheriff levied on
the thing, lock, stock, and barrel, an' is to sell it piece by piece at
public outcry Saturday week. Alf wrote me that a sale of that sort was
exactly in his line, and that he'd try to be on hand. He didn