John sat down in his room one night to answer this letter, but, though he tried very hard, he could think of little to say. Cavanaugh's simple phrases had sounded his deepest emotional depths, and yet he could not bring himself to write an appropriate response. He started to mention the death of Binks, but gave that up. That, he argued, would only cause his old friend to be the more deeply concerned over his welfare. So he wrote the most cheerful letter of which he was capable, about his activity in business matters, and his ability to look on the bright side of such things as the absence of Dora and his unmarried state. He ended the letter with this: Yes, I fully agree with you in regard to a frank and truthful statement about my being alive, etc. I understand the situation and don't blame you at all. Tell every one who cares to inquire that the newspaper report was a mistake and that you saw me while you were here. I want to see you and your wife as badly as you want to see me, but I'm afraid I cannot come down, now, at any rate. CHAPTER VII Joel Eperson sat on his small one-horse wagon, which was loaded with fire-wood. He was taking the wood to Cavanaugh's from the small farm he was renting two miles from Ridgeville. Joel had aged remarkably. Young as he was, his thin hair and beard were becoming gray, and his sallow face was seamed with lines of worry and care. His clothing was of the cheapest material and threadbare, and yet faultlessly clean. As he got down at the front gate Cavanaugh and his wife, who were seated under an apple-tree at the side of the house, came around to meet him. "Here is the wood you wanted," Joel said, removing his hat in quite his old chivalrous way. "You said dry oak, and I found plenty on the hill back of my corn-field." "And mighty nigh killed yourself cutting it in lengths and splitting it," Cavanaugh said. "Dry oak is a hard proposition for anything but a sawmill. What do you want for this load?" "A dollar is what I usually get," Joel answered, sensitive as he always was when dealing with friends. "Humph!" Cavanaugh sniffed, and looked at his wife. "This load is twice as big as any dollar load I ever bought, and will throw out twice as much heat to the square inch. I'll tell you, Joel, I've got a two-dollar bill that is burning a hole in my pocket, and it goes for this load of wood or you have me to whip. We are out of stove-wood, too, and I don't want any dickering from you about it." Joel flushed under his tattered straw hat. "It isn't worth that much," he declared, tapping the ground with his whip. "It is worth it to me, Joel," Cavanaugh smiled, "so what can you do about it? I won't take double value from any man, much less you. How is Tilly?" "She is fairly well, thank you," the farmer replied. "And the little ones?" Mrs. Cavanaugh asked, with a motherly smile.