"Neither have I, uncle, neither have I," he said; "not chick nor child. If you ain't too tired, let me show you over the house. I'm sorry the elevator isn't running, so you could go up to the cupolo. This room's a sort of e pluribus unum, many in one; kind of a boodwar and kitchen combined. The other rooms ain't inclosed yet, but they're safe enough outside. That's the advantage of this climate, you don't have to put everything under cover. Ground-plan suit you pretty well?" "I think thee's very cosy," Enoch said, smiling gravely; "when does thee look for thy wife?" "Just as soon as she's able," said Jerry, drawing an empty nail-keg confidentially toward Enoch and seating himself; "you see"-- He stopped short. The cradle behind the old man was still rocking gently. "I guess it won't be very long," he added indifferently. III. The south-bound train was late, and the few loafers who found their daily excitement in its arrival had drifted away as it grew dark, leaving no one but Enoch on the platform. When the train whistled the station agent opened the office door and his kerosene lamp sent a shaft of light out into the darkness. There was the usual noisy banter among the trainmen, and none of them seemed to notice the woman who alighted from the platform of the passenger coach and came toward Enoch. She stood in the light of the doorway, so that the old man could see her tawdry dress and the travel-dimmed red and white of her painted face. "Is there a man named Jerry Sullivan livin' in this town?" she asked. Enoch was conscious of a vague disappointment. "Yes," he said, half reluctantly, "he lives here. I suppose thee's his wife." The woman looked at him curiously. Then she laughed. "Yes, I suppose I am," she said; "can you show me where he lives?" "I can't show thee very well in the dark, but it isn't far. If thee'll wait a minute, I'll take thy satchel and go with thee." He brought the mail-bag and picked up the stranger's valise. "Thy husband's been looking for thee," he said, as they went along the path that led across a vacant lot to the street. The woman did not reply at once. She seemed intent upon gathering her showy skirts out of the dust. When she spoke, her voice trembled on the verge of a laugh. "That so? I've been lookin' for him, too. Thought I'd give him a pleasant surprise." "He's got his house about finished." The woman stopped in the path. "His house," she sneered; "he must be rattled if he thinks I'll live in a place like this--forty miles from nowhere." They walked on in silence after that to the door of Jerry's shanty. There was a light inside, and the smell of cooking mingled with the resinous odor of the new lumber. Jerry was executing a difficult passage in a very light opera to the somewhat trying accompaniment of frying ham. The solo stopped abruptly when Enoch knocked. "Come in," shouted the reckless voice of the singer, "let the good angels come in, come in!" Enoch opened the door.