"If I can, I'll send you a little now and then," the young fellow went on more cheerfully, "but I'd just as soon you wouldn't mention it. I'll be back sometime, there's no doubt about that, but I can't say just when. You can tell the folks that my--my wife," he choked on the word, "didn't feel satisfied here. She thinks it won't agree with her. And I guess it won't, she's very bad off"--he turned away lingeringly, and then came back. "About the--the--crib," he faltered, "if they happen to have a baby, I wouldn't mind them using it. Babies are pretty generally respectable, no matter what their folks are. I _was_ calculating," he went on wistfully, "to get another box and hunt up some wheels, and I thought maybe they could rig it up with a pink parasol and use it to cart the baby 'round; you know if a woman isn't very strong, it might save her a good deal--but then it's too late now;" he turned away hopelessly. "I guess I can manage that for thee, Jerry," said Enoch; "I'm rather handy with tools. Thee needn't worry." The two men stood still a moment in the moonlight. "Good-by, Mr. Embody," said Jerry. He did not put out his hand. Enoch hesitated a little. "Farewell," he said, and his voice was not quite natural. The next morning, when Enoch opened the outside letter-box to postmark the mail that had been dropped into it after the store was closed the night before, he found but one letter. It was addressed to Mrs. Josie Hart Sullivan, Pikeboro, Mo IV. "Are you the postmaster?" Enoch dropped the tin scoop into the sugar-bin, and turned around. The voice was timid, almost appealing, and Enoch glanced from the pale, girlish face that confronted him to the bundle in her arms. There was no mistaking the bundle. It was of that peculiar bulky shapelessness which betokens a very small infant. "Yes, I'm the postmaster," answered Enoch kindly; "is there anything I can do for thee?" The young creature looked down, and a faint color came into her transparent face. "I've just come in on the train," she faltered. "I thought you might be able to tell me where to go. I haven't very much money. I was sick on the way, and spent more than I expected. I--I"--she hesitated, and glanced at Enoch with a little expectant gasp. "Is thee alone?" inquired the old man. "Yes. That is--only Baby. My husband has just--just"--her voice fluttered and died away helplessly. "Oh, thee's a widow," said Enoch gently. "Yes." The poor young thing looked up with a smile of wistful gratitude. "I'm not very strong. I heard this was a healthy place. They thought it would be good for us--Baby and me. I'm Mrs. Josie Hart. Baby's name is Gerald." "Would thee be afraid to stay in a house alone?" inquired Enoch thoughtfully. The stranger gave him a look of gentle surprise. "Why, no, of course not--not with Baby; he's so much company." There was a note of profound compassion for his masculine ignorance in her young voice.