He left me, but I didn't know.
Presently he was back, with the picture case in his hand, and he
held it open before me and said:
"There, now, tell her to her face you could have stayed to see her,
and you wouldn't."
That second glimpse broke down my good resolution. I would stay
and take the risk. That night we smoked the tranquil pipe,
and talked till late about various things, but mainly about her;
and certainly I had had no such pleasant and restful time for many
a day. The Thursday followed and slipped comfortably away.
Toward twilight a big miner from three miles away came--one of
the grizzled, stranded pioneers--and gave us warm salutation,
clothed in grave and sober speech. Then he said:
"I only just dropped over to ask about the little madam, and when
is she coming home. Any news from her?"
"Oh, yes, a letter. Would you like to hear it, Tom?"
"Well, I should think I would, if you don't mind, Henry!"
Henry got the letter out of his wallet, and said he would skip
some of the private phrases, if we were willing; then he went
on and read the bulk of it--a loving, sedate, and altogether
charming and gracious piece of handiwork, with a postscript full
of affectionate regards and messages to Tom, and Joe, and Charley,
and other close friends and neighbors.
As the reader finished, he glanced at Tom, and cried out:
"Oho, you're at it again! Take your hands away, and let me see
your eyes.
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