-are they home?" he asked at length.

The Indian woman shook her head.

"Sam and Sophie go 'way," she said placidly. "No come back Lone Moose
long time--maybe no more. Sophie leave sumpin' you. I get."

She crossed the room to a shelf above the serried volumes of Sam Carr's
library, lifted the cover of a tin tobacco box and took out a letter.
This she gave to Thompson. Then she sat down cross-legged on the
wolfskin beside her youngster, looking up at her visitor impassively,
her moon face void of expression, except perhaps the mildest trace of
curiosity.

Thompson fingered the envelope for a second, scarcely crediting his
ears. The letter in his hands conveyed nothing. He did not recognize the
writing. He was acutely conscious of a dreadful heartsinking. There was
a finality about the Indian woman's statement that chilled him.

"They have gone away?" he said. "Where? When did they go?"

"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