Justine received his letter at the end of the week. The three days intervening between his departure and its arrival had seemed almost years. Since their marriage day they had not been separated for more than twelve consecutive hours. It was the first night she had spent alone--the night which followed his departure. In her brief, blissful married life it was the only night she had spent without his arm for a pillow. The days were bleak and oppressive; she lived in a daze, almost to the point of unconsciousness. The nights brought dismal forebodings, cruel dreams, and sudden awakenings. She felt lost, in strange and unfriendly surroundings; where love, tenderness, and joy had been the reigning forces there was now only loneliness. No object seemed familiar to her. Everything that had given personality to the little farm was gone with the whistle of a locomotive, the clacking of railway coaches, the clanging of a bell. The landscape was not the same, the sky was no longer blue, the moon and stars were somber. Yank, the dog, moped about the place, purposeless, sad-eyed, and with no ambition in his erstwhile frisky tail. Jud had not been gone more than half a day when curious neighbors pulled up their horses at the gate. "Heerd from Jud? How's he gittin' 'long in Chickawgo?" "I haven't heard, Mr. Martin, but I am expecting a letter soon. How long does it take mail to get here from Chicago?" "Depends a good deal on how fer it is." "Oh, it's over two hundred miles, I know." "Seems to me y'oughter be hearin' 'fore long, then. Shell I ast ef they's any mail fer you down to the post-office?" "I have sent Charlie Spangler to the toll-gate, thank you." "Gitep!" Mail reached the cross-roads post-office twice a day, carried over by wagon from Glenville. Little Charlie Spangler was at the toll-gate morning and evening, at least half an hour before Mr. Hardesty drove up with the slim pouch, but it was not until the third morning that he was rewarded. Then came a thick envelope on which blazed the Chicago postmark. Every hanger-on about the toll-gate unhesitatingly declared the handwriting to be that of Jud Sherrod. It was addressed to Mrs. Dudley Sherrod. The letter was passed around for inspection before it was finally delivered to the proud boy, who ran nearly all the way to Justine's in his eagerness to learn as much as he could of its contents. Jim Hardesty had promised him a bunch of Yucatan if he brought all the news to the toll-gate before supper-time. Justine knew the letter had come when she saw the spindle-shanked boy racing up the lane. She was awaiting the messenger at the gate. "Is it from Jud?" she cried, hurrying to meet him, her face glowing once more. He was waving the epistle on high. "That's what they all say," he panted, as he drew near. "Jim says he'd know Jud's writin' if he wrote in Chinese."