declare, I believe I enjoy a party as much as any gal that ever lived,
an' at my age, too--it's shameful. I'd be talked about in some
places." She laid her hands on the shoulders of her guest, her face
beaming. "Now, ef you want to primp up a little an' bresh that
hoss-hair off'n yore pants, go in yore room. It's at the end o' the
back porch. Alf's already tuck yore saddle-bags thar."




Chapter V

His room was a small one. It had a sloping ceiling, and a little
six-paned window. A small, oblong stove stood far enough back in the
capacious fireplace to allow its single joint of pipe to stand upright
in the chimney. There was a high-posted bed, a wash-stand, a mirror,
and a split-bottomed chair.

He sat down in the chair, rested his elbows on his knees, and leaned
forward. Despite his determination to begin life anew, he was thinking
of Sally Dawson's death and burial--the old woman who was leading the
life of a recluse, and hating all her kind, him in particular. He put
his hand in his coat-pocket and drew out a thick envelope containing
the dead girl's letter, and read it as he had done almost every day
since it came to him. It was part of the punishment he was inflicting
on himself. He had been tempted a thousand times to destroy the
letter, but had never done so. He forgot that a gay party of young
people were assembling in the next room; he was oblivious of the noise
of moving chairs, the creaking floor, loud laughter, and the hum of
voices. Fate had set him aside from the rest of the world, he told