XVIII

She sat smoking.

Had I never heard of her before, had I opened my eyes as I did that day
to see her sitting before me, I should have exclaimed, "It's John
Shadrack's widder!"

So, with the crayon portrait, gilt-framed, that hung on the wall behind
her, I should have cried, "And that is John Shadrack!"

This crayon "enlargement" presented John with very black skin and
spotless white hair. His head was tilted back in a manner that made
the great bushy beard seem to stick right out from the frame, and gave
the impression that the old man was choking down a fit of uproarious
laughter. I knew, of course, that he had been posed that way to better
show his collar and cravat. Though Tip had described him to me as a
rather gloomy, taciturn person, the impression gained in the long
contemplation of his picture as I lay helpless on the bed never
changed. To me he was the ideal citizen of Happy Valley, and the
acquaintance I formed then and there with his wife served only to
endear him to me.

She sat smoking. I contemplated her a very long while and she gazed
calmly back. A score of times I tried to speak, but something failed
me, and when I attempted to wave my hand in greeting to her I could not
lift it from the bed.

At last strength came.