She looked up, but not at me. Her face was turned to the window; her eyes were over the valley which was growing gray, for the sun was down. What she saw there I could not tell. A drearier sight is hard to find than our valley when the chill of the November evening is creeping over it as the fire in the west goes out. Night covers it, and it sleeps. But the winter twilight raises up its shadows. In the darkness all is hidden. In the half-light there is utter loneliness. I turned from the window to the letter, and Mary looked at me for the first time in many minutes. "Are you going to read the rest of the letter?" she demanded. "You have heard 'most all of it," I replied evasively. "And the rest?" she said. "Is of no interest," I answered. "It's just a few personal, confidential things. Perhaps some time I can tell you." "Oh," she exclaimed carelessly, and went on knitting, drawing closer to the lamplight. "How long is it since he left?" she asked at last, reaching down to untangle the worsted from the end of the rocker. "Six weeks," said I. "It's just six weeks coming to-morrow since Tim and I parted at Pleasantville. To think he has been promoted already! At that rate he should be head of the firm in a year or two." "Mr. Weston has been very kind," said she. "Of course he has seen that Tim had every chance. He is the most thoughtful man I ever knew. He----" Weston's excellent qualities were well known to me. I had discovered them long ago, and I did not care to hear Mary descant on them at length. He had done much for Tim, but it was what Tim had done for himself that I was proud of, so I interrupted her rather rudely. "Yes, he got Tim his place; but you must remember Mr. Weston has hardly been in New York a day since the boy left. He doesn't bother much about business, so, after all, Tim is working his way alone." "Yes," said Mary. She had missed a stitch somewhere, and it irritated her greatly. That was evident by the way she picked at it. She remedied the trouble somehow, recovered her composure, and went on knitting. "Is it eight dollars he is making, did you say?" she asked. "Yes, eight," I replied, verifying the figure with a glance at the letter. "A week or a month?" "A week. Just think of it--that is more than I got in the army." But Mary was not a bit impressed. I remembered that she came from Kansas, and in Kansas a dollar is not so big as in our valley. "Living is so expensive in the city," she said absently. "With eight dollars a week here Tim would be a millionaire. But in New York--" A shrug of the shoulder expressed her meaning. "True," said I, a bit ruefully.