"There's no place like Black Log," said Tip, as we turned the crest of
Thunder Knob. "Mind how pretty it is--mind the shadders on the ridge
yon--and them white barns. Mind the big creek--there by the kivered
bridge--ain't it gleamin' cheerful? There's no place like our walley."




XIX

It was dark when I reached home. Opening the door, I groped my way
across the room till I found the lamp and lighted it. Then I sat down
a minute to think. Two weeks is a very short time, but when you have
been over the mountains and back, when you have hovered for days close
to the banks of the Styx, when you have huddled for days close to the
Shadrack stove, listening to the widow's stories of her John and Tip's
praise of his wife, then a fortnight seems an age. But everything was
as I had left it. Even the pen leaned against the inkwell and the
scraps of paper littered the floor where I had tossed them that
morning, when Tip and I started over the mountain. Those scraps were
part of the letter I did not send to Mary. They flashed to me the
thought of the one I had sent, and of the answer I never expected. It
was foolish to look, but I had told her to slip her note under the
door, if she did send it, and I was taking no chances. Seizing the
lamp, I hobbled to the kitchen, and laughing to myself at the whole
absurd proceeding, leaned over and swept the floor with the light.

Right on the sill it lay, a small white envelope! I did not waste time
hobbling back to my chair and the table. I sat right down on the floor