"Long time. Two moon," she replied matter-of-factly. "Dunno where go.
Sam say he go--don't know when come back. Leave me house, plenty
blanket, plenty grub. Next spring he say he send more grub. That all.
Sophie go too."
Thompson stared at her. Perhaps he was not alone in facing something
that numbed him.
"Your man go away. Not come back. You sorry? You feel bad?" he asked.
Her lips parted in a wide smile.
"Sam he good man," she said evenly. "Leave good place for me. I plenty
warm, plenty to eat. I no care he go. Sam, pretty soon he get old. I
want ketchum man, I ketchum. No feel bad. No."
She shook her head, as if the idea amused her. And Mr. Thompson,
perceiving that a potential desertion which moved him to sympathy did
not trouble her at all, turned his attention to the letter in his hand.
He opened the envelope. There were half a dozen closely written sheets
within.
Dear freckle-faced man: there is such a lot I want to say that I
don't know where to begin. Perhaps you'll think it queer I should
write instead of telling you, but I have found it hard to talk to
you, hard to say what I mean in any clear sort of way. Speech is
a tricky thing when half of one's mind is dwelling on the person
one is trying to talk to and only the other half alive to what
one is trying to express. The last time we were together it was
hard for me to talk. I knew what I was going to do, and I didn't
like to tell you. I wanted to talk and when I tried I blundered.
Too much feeling--a sort of inward choking. And the last few
days, when I have become accustomed to the idea of going away and
familiar with the details of the astonishing change which has
taken place in my life, you have been gone. I dare not trust to a
casual meeting between here and Pachugan. I do not even know for
sure that you have gone to Pachugan, or that you will come
back--of course I think you will or I should not write.
But unless you come back to-night you will not see me at Lone
Moose. So I'm going to write and leave it with Cloudy Moon to
give you when you do come.
Perhaps I'd better explain a little. Dad had an old bachelor
brother who--it seems--knew me when I was an infant. Somehow he
and dad have kept in some sort of touch. This uncle, whom I do
not remember at all, grew moderately wealthy. When he died some
six months ago his money was willed equally to dad and myself. It
was not wholly unexpected. Dad has often reminded me of that
ultimate loophole when I would grow discontented with being
penned up in these dumb forests. I suppose it may sound callous
to be pleased with a dead man's gift, but regardless of the ways
and means provided it seems very wonderful to me that at last I
am going out into the big world that I have spent so many hours
dreaming of, going out to where there are pictures and music and
beautiful things of all sorts--and men.