Of course he talked away from it. “I guess I've left 'em in pretty good shape for the winter at Lion's Head,” he said. “I've got Whitwell to agree to come up and live in the house with mother, and she'll have Cynthy with her, anyway; and Frank and Jombateeste can look after the bosses easy enough.” He had said something like this before, but Westover could see that it comforted him to repeat it, and he encouraged him to do so in full. He made him talk about getting home in the spring, after the frost was out of the ground, but he questioned involuntarily, while the sick man spoke, whether he might not then be lying under the sands that had never known a frost since the glacial epoch. When the last warning for visitors to go ashore came, Jackson said, with a wan smile, while he held Westover's hand: “I sha'n't forget this very soon.” “Write to me,” said Westover. Part II. XXVII. Jackson kept his promise to write to Westover, but he was better than his word to his mother, and wrote to her every week that winter. “I seem just to live from letter to letter. It's ridic'lous,” she said to Cynthia once when the girl brought the mail in from the barn, where the men folks kept it till they had put away their horses after driving over from Lovewell with it. The trains on the branch road were taken off in the winter, and the post-office at the hotel was discontinued. The men had to go to the town by cutter, over a highway that the winds sifted half full of snow after it had been broken out by the ox-teams in the morning. But Mrs. Durgin had studied the steamer days and calculated the time it would take letters to come from New York to Lovewell; and, unless a blizzard was raging, some one had to go for the mail when the day came. It was usually Jombateeste, who reverted in winter to the type of habitant from which he had sprung. He wore a blue woollen cap, like a large sock, pulled over his ears and close to his eyes, and below it his clean-shaven brown face showed. He had blue woollen mittens, and boots of russet leather, without heels, came to his knees; he got a pair every time he went home on St. John's day. His lean little body was swathed in several short jackets, and he brought the letters buttoned into one of the innermost pockets. He produced the letter from Jackson promptly enough when Cynthia came out to the barn for it, and then he made a show of getting his horse out of the cutter shafts, and shouting international reproaches at it, till she was forced to ask, “Haven't you got something for me, Jombateeste?” “You expec' some letter?” he said, unbuckling a strap and shouting louder. “You know whether I do. Give it to me.” “I don' know. I think I drop something on the road. I saw something white; maybe snow; good deal of snow.” “Don't plague! Give it here!” “Wait I finish unhitch. I can't find any letter till I get some time to look.” “Oh, now, Jombateeste! Give me my letter!”