When the packet of mail came, Philip went through it leisurely. Most of the letters were from his sisters in New Hampshire, the later ones reminding him rather acidly that a correspondence was ordinarily supposed to be two-sided. These, and two or three from former classmates and friends, made up the accumulation. “There was nothing else?” he asked, with a shade of disappointment. “That’s the crop, I believe. Ought there to be more?” “One more, at least.” “Let me think,” said Middleton. “I believe all your mail was brought to me while we were in the old Lawrence Street office. I kept the letters in my desk for a long time, but after the consolidation I turned them over to Baldwin in the superintendent’s office, thinking I might not be here when you sent or came for them.” As he spoke, he opened a drawer and rummaged in it, saying: “They were stacked here in this corner, and ... why, yes; here _is_ another. Don’t see how I came to miss it.” Philip glanced at the envelope of the newly found letter. It bore the Denver postmark, and the date was barely two weeks later than that upon which the prospecting trip had been begun. The enclosure was merely a note, but it was easy to read the heartbreak between the lines. Dear Mr. Trask: The Captain left us three days ago. We waited too long before bringing him here. I am writing because you asked me to, though I don’t know whether or not this will find you. The end came very suddenly at the last; but you will be glad to know that it was peaceful--that there wasn’t unbearable suffering. I don’t know yet what we shall do, or where we shall go; or if, indeed, we shall go anywhere. There is nothing to go back to Mississippi for, even if we could afford it; and there ought to be something for us--or for me--to do here in Denver. I shall try to find something, anyway. Mother wishes to be kindly remembered to you, and so do the children. You were friendly to us at a time when we needed friendship; and, as I once told you, we do not forget. Sincerely and sorrowfully, Jean Dabney. Philip returned the letter to its envelope and put it in his pocket. “Bad news?” Middleton asked. Philip was of no mind to share personal confidences with his former desk-mate. “Sad for the writer,” he replied. “It is a note telling of the death of a poor consumptive who was on the train with me coming out from Kansas City last spring.” This casual explanation side-tracked the matter, as he hoped it might; and Middleton went on to say: “So you haven’t come to look for a job? Perhaps you have a better one. You seem to be wearing pretty good clothes.”