"I want nothing but to go away--far away," was the low reply.
"Well, you've lived in the desert--I guess you can live in the grass-
country," came the dry response. "Good-bye-and good luck, Scranton."
Tim turned to go, moved on a few steps, then looked back.
"Don't be afraid--they'll not follow," he said. "I'll fix it for you all
right."
But the man appeared not to hear; he was still on his knees.
Tim faced the woods once more.
He was about to mount his horse when he heard a step behind him. He
turned sharply--and faced Laura. "I couldn't rest. I came out this
morning. I've seen everything," she said.
"You didn't trust me," he said heavily.
"I never did anything else," she answered.
He gazed half-fearfully into her eyes. "Well?" he asked. "I've done my
best, as I said I would."
"Tim," she said, and slipped a hand in his, "would you mind the religion
--if you had me?"
THE LITTLE WIDOW OF JANSEN
Her advent to Jansen was propitious. Smallpox in its most virulent form
had broken out in the French-Canadian portion of the town, and, coming
with some professional nurses from the East, herself an amateur, to
attend the sufferers, she worked with such skill and devotion that the
official thanks of the Corporation were offered her, together with a tiny
gold watch, the gift of grateful citizens.
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