his fear.

Constance Ellsworth held out her hand, with questions for his own
household at Heart's Desire. Was everything right with them? Was
Arabella quite well of her accident? Was his wife well? And so on.
But all the time she questioned him deeper with eyes large, wistful,
eager. She had had no news since leaving Heart's Desire, and now she
dreaded any. This, then, she said with tightening heart, was news, but
fatal news, long withheld. Had Dan Anderson come back unhurt from his
sheriff's errand, there would have been no message at all, and silence
would have been sweeter than this certainty of evil. This messenger,
reticent, awkward, embarrassed, brought her news of Dan Anderson--of
the boy whom she had loved, of the man she loved, debonair, mocking,
apparently careless, but, as she herself knew, in his heart indomitably
resolved. Now he was gone forever from her life. He was dead! She
could never see him again. Ah! why had they not used the days of this
life, so brief, so soon ended? It was of his death that the messenger
must speak.

Curly, already sufficiently perturbed, witnessed all this written on
her face, stumbled, stammered, but was unable to find coherent speech;
although he saw plainly enough the subterfuge with which even now the
girl sought to hedge herself against prying eyes that would have read
her secret. She began again, to ask him of his family, the same
questions. "Is anything wrong?" she demanded. In some way they were
seated before he could go on.

"It ain't the twins, ma'am," he began. "I got--I got a letter for you.
It's from him--from us--that is, I got a letter from Mr. Anderson--Dan
Anderson, you know."

He fumbled in his pocket. The girl, thoroughbred, looked him straight
in the face, pale, meeting what she felt to be the great moment of her
life.

"Then he's alive! He must be!"

Curly shook his head; meaning that he was feeling in the wrong pocket.

"He is dead! And I did not see him. He--went away--" Her chin
quivered. "Tell me," she whispered, "tell me!"

Curly, busy in his search for the letter, lost the tragedy of this.

"Tell me, _tell_ me, how did it happen?"

"Well, ma'am, he ain't hurt so awful," remarked Curly, calmly. "He
just got a finger or so touched up a little, so's he couldn't write
none to speak of, you see."

Her heart gave a great bound. She feared to hope, lest the truth might
be too cruel; but at length she dared the issue. "