He went and got a big woolen cloth, held it to the stove till it got hot, and wrapped my ears up. Then he went and got a little glass full of liquor, and told me to drink it and it would warm me up. I told him I hadent any money, and had never drank a drop of liquor in my life. “Well,” says he, “I know you have no money, and, if you had, a old man like you, in your condition, shouldent pay for it. If you dont wish to drink it I wont insist, but I thought it would warm you up.” So he set the glass down on the counter and says: “Ile make you a hot cup of coffee, and then I think you will feel better.” When the saloonkeeper set the glass of whiskey down and went to gittin me some hot breakfast, I seemed to git colder inside as I got warmer outside. So, Betsy, I jist made up my mind that Ide drink that glass of whiskey if it killed me. And I did. Soon after I drank it I felt a warm feelin inside; and as I sot there it jist seemed as though I could feel myself a thawin out, with that big fire outside and that glass of whiskey inside. I sot there till the feller had my coffee and breakfast ready. It was the best coffee I ever tasted,—though, Betsy, I always loved the coffee you made,—and the fried eggs and the ham and the hot cakes jist seemed to melt in my mouth. Well, arter I had my breakfast the saloonkeeper came around and sot down and asked me all about myself, and you too. [Illustration: “‘WELL, OLD MAN, SICH THINGS HADENT ORT TO BE.’”] And as I told all our trouble, about our foreclosin and sellin out, and my huntin work and not findin it, big tears would every now and then leave his big blue eyes and roll down his cheeks, and he kept a swallerin every little bit. When I had told him all, says he: “Well, old man, sich things hadent ort to be.” So, when I got ready to go, he shook my hand and wished me good luck in findin work; and when he took hold of my hand I felt somethin hard in his, and when he let go I had a silver dollar in mine. I handed it back to him, and told him I dident know as I could ever return it to him. “No matter, pap,” says he, “keep it. If you are never able to return it, all right, and if you are able and never see me, ‘do unto some other human brother as I have done unto you,’ and the debt will be paid. Times are hard, and I have sich high taxes to pay that it makes money scarce with me, or I would give you more. I hate to see you go out in this cold; you are welcome to stay if you wish.” But, Betsy, I was so anxious to find work and git a place for you that I couldent stay. So that day and nite I made it to here. This is a big town, but so far I have found no work. Your lovin husband, JOBE GASKINS. When I got done readin that letter I was cryin out loud. Poor Jobe. I wonder where he was last nite. Oh, how I love that man that took Jobe in and warmed him and fed him!