He was deep in
meditation. She stood looking at him for a time from the foot of the
stairway.
"He's asleep," she began finally in a very little voice. "He fell
asleep almost before his cheek touched the pillow."
Caleb made no answer. He nodded but his eyes were vacant with thoughts
of his own.
"Cal," she went on, "did you give him that old coat of mine?"
Caleb nodded again--an affirmative.
"Well, the last thing he asked before he slept was that I deliver a
message to you. 'Tell him thanks for me,' he said. 'Tell him I clean
forgot it til now!' And as for me, Cal--why--why, 'he'd git me
anuther, anytime I took the notion thet I wanted one!'"
And still Caleb nodded. The room was quiet for a long time.
"Sarah," he murmured at last.
"Yes, Cal," she answered.
"Has that boy's--yarn--set you to thinking a little?"
"It was very interesting and unusual," she admitted. Then she rose and
crossed over to his chair and perched herself, with odd, elfish,
girlish grace upon its arm.
"Do you mean Old Tom's tin box?" she asked gently.
And he nodded.
"Yes, in part--yes," he said. "But not just that alone, either. I
mean everything, Sarah. The way he handles himself; the way he looks
one in the face when he is talking. The--the--now what are you
grinning over?"
She stroked his sparse hair.
"Cal, you old romancer, you.
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