Don't blame
Budd; I tol' 'im I wus well acquainted with the new stableman; an' I
am, I reckon, ef _any_body is. I had business over heer," she went on,
as she got out her old-fashioned pocket-book and fumbled it with
trembling fingers. "I couldn't attend to it by writin'; some'n's gone
wrong with the mails; it looks like I cayn't git no answers to the
letters I write."
Washburn took the money and went into the office for the change.
"I didn't see what good it would do to write, Mrs. Dawson," said
Westerfelt; "maybe it was wrong for me not to, but I've had a lot to
bear; and you--"
"_That_ you have," she interrupted, her face hardening, as she looked
across the ploughed fields, bordered by strips of yellow broom-sedge,
towards the pine forests in the west. "You wus cut bad, I heer, an'
laid up fer a week ur so, an' then the skeer them Whitecaps give you on
top of it must a' been awful to a proud sperit like yore'n; but even
sech as that will wear off _in time_. But nothin' _human_, John
Westerfelt--nothin' _human_ kin fetch back the dead. Sally's place is
unoccupied.
Pages:
190
191
192
193
194
195
196
197
198
199
200
201
202
203
204
205
206
207
208
209
210
211
212
213
214