“Then tell a feller where the killin’ came in, Mary, for heaven’s sake,” said the unhappy Sam. “It’s come in all along, Sam,” said the woman; “there is women in the States, so I’ve heerd, that marries fur a home, an’ bread an’ butter, but you promised more’n that, Sam. An’ I’ve waited. An’ it ain’t come. An’ there’s somethin’ in me that’s all starved and cut to pieces. An’ it’s your fault, Sam. I tuk yer fur better or fur wuss, an’ I’ve never grumbled.” “I know yer hain’t, Mary,” whispered the conscience-stricken Pike. “An’ I know what yer mean. Ef God’ll only let yer be fur a few years, I’ll see ef the thing can’t be helped. Don’t cuss me, Mary—I’ve never knowed how I’ve been a-goin’. I wish there was somethin’ I could do ’fore you go, to pay yer all I owe yer. I’d go back on everything that makes life worth hevin’.” “Pay it to the children, Sam,” said the sick woman, raising herself in her miserable bed. “I’ll forgive yer everything if you’ll do the right thing fur them. Do—do—everything!” said the woman, throwing up her arms and falling backward. Her husband’s arm caught her; his lips brought to her wan face a smile, which the grim visitor, who an instant later stole her breath, pityingly left in full possession of the rightful inheritance from which it had been so long excluded. Sam knelt for a moment with his face beside his wife—what he said or did the Lord only knew, but the doctor, who was of a speculative mind, afterward said that when Sam appeared at the door he showed the first Pike face in which he had ever seen any signs of a soul. Sam went to the sod house, where lived the oldest woman in the camp, and briefly announced the end of his wife. Then, after some consultation with the old woman, Sam rode to town on one of his horses, leading another. He came back with but one horse and a large bundle; and soon the women were making for Mrs. Trotwine her last earthly robe, and the first new one she had worn for years. The next day a wagon brought a coffin and a minister, and the whole camp silently and respectfully followed Mrs. Trotwine to a home with which she could find no fault. For three days all the male Pikes in the camp sat on the log in front of Sam’s door, and expressed their sympathy as did the three friends of Job—that is, they held their peace. But on the fourth their tongues were unloosed. As a conversationalist the Pike is not a success, but Sam’s actions were so unusual and utterly unheard of, that it seemed as if even the stones must have wondered and communed among themselves. “I never heard of such a thing,” said Brown Buck; “he’s gone an’ bought new clothes for each of the four young ’uns.”