“Yes,” said John, chokingly. It was all he could say. Betsy kept her face toward John—then toward the house—then the tallest tree—then the steeple of the church—long after each had successively disappeared from view. Then she bravely turned it toward the poor-house. And John watched the wagon as it climbed hill after hill and disappeared in valley after valley till it was lost to view. John tried his pick and shovel again. But they were thick with rust and very heavy. And the wounded doctor had just brought him a crutch—saying that as he was having one made for himself he had also had one made for John—though he could do without it. He smiled a little then and put away forever his old and faithful tools. For a living he did what he could. It was not much, and he and hunger came to be rare intimates. But that youthful hope which Betsy’s last words had wrought, and its almost savage vigor to do for her, did not depart from John. After a while something went wrong with his head. He fancied that _she_ was still with him in the little house and always had been. Her dainty old clothing was about everywhere to foster this. One night he dreamed of her—that she was by his side. The dream was so real that he reached out his arms—only to close them on the air. Then he understood for a little that it had all been but a fancy. He lay for a long time shuddering and passing now and then his arms through the empty air—thinking that _might_ have been real and this the fancy. Toward morning a wondrous thought came to him. He remembered that she had said he was to come for her. He was to bring her back. There was to be another beginning—another home-coming—another bride and groom. He did not remember the rest—that he was to wait until his affairs had improved, or until she sent for him. He pictured it all in the vivid darkness—how he would suddenly appear before her in his Sunday clothes—which meant his best uniform—and say “Come!” A wondrous voice echoed his own “Come!” He flung himself out of the bed like a youth. He shaved with great care—he wore no beard and had a clean fresh face—set everything in order in the tiny rooms—pulled down the blinds, locked the door, and, taking up his crutch, started away over the road the wagon had gone to the poor-house. He paused on the hills and looked backward as Betsy had done. The blinking windows seemed to beckon him back. But he bravely said no to them: “I ain’t no deserter! I’m coming back—with her—with her. Don’t you understand? With _her_! Bride and groom again.” The windows seemed to understand, and stopped beckoning. He waved them a farewell and went on. It was a long road—forty dusty miles—and hilly. Each hill growing higher and steeper as he approached the city—itself set upon a hill—where the poor-house was. His progress was very slow—sometimes not more than half a mile a day. But he never faltered.