True to his promise to Emeline Hobbs and Gena Filson, Paul Waffington went back to Blood Camp. His first promise had been to Gena Filson—to visit her in her mountain home. It was late in the afternoon when he walked up in front of the little cabin that had been the home of Lucky Joe. He drew up by the gate and called out loudly, but no response. He called again and again, but heard only the echo of his own words in answer. Again and again he called, but all was silent.
“Poor Mrs. Filson, not at home. Poor woman! Perhaps she had gone to make her home with some distant relative,” he said sorrowfully. Then hailing a passing mountain youth, he asked:
“Where are the people who live here?”
“Nobody lives there,” replied the boy.
“Where are the people who did live here?” he again asked.
“Don’t know. They’re gone. Some dead—some gone off.”
He turned in at the little gate, and as he approached the house he noted that everything about it went to prove that it was fast crumbling back to mother dust. There was no inviting gateway, no fence now—in fact, nothing to keep out even the unwary intruder. The wild flowers and vines that had voluntarily entwined their tendrils about the doorway in the budding springtime had drooped their feeble, thirsty heads and died, and in this late November afternoon there remained of them little more than a memory.
The house looked as if it had been transformed into a conference hall of spooks and ghosts. But, taking courage, he managed to push open its decaying door and walk through its empty chambers with stealthy steps. Within all was still and deathlike, save the ringing echoes of his own footsteps upon the floor. He looked upon the walls, and they were barren. He turned to the little open window, through which, no doubt, the eyes of hope had longingly gazed upon the world; there, too, was the fireplace, with its broken hearthstone, where mountain love had often gathered in the evening. But, lo! their taper had burned low and gone out!
As Paul Waffington came out and sat upon the doorstep of this deserted mountain home, thoughts came to him that hitherto were foreign, and a feeling stole over him that he will not soon forget. He recalled the face in the casket. He heard again the cries of the sweet little Gena. He again sees the mother as she sobbed and moaned that day over the casket:
“O Joe, dear Joe, dear Joe, I forgive you all—I forgive you all.”