And Mr. Jackson placed twenty-one dollars in the drawer, and gave me credit on his books.
I walked out somewhat downcast. I had wanted several things in the shape of groceries, and with no money to purchase them what was I to do?
As I walked down the one street of the village, I passed the post-office. Mr. Sandon, the post-master, was at the window, and he tapped for me to come in.
“A letter just came for you,” he said. And he went behind the counter and handed it over.
For an instant my heart gave a bound of pleasure as I thought it must be a letter from my father; then I saw that the handwriting was strange, and I opened the epistle, wondering what it could contain.
It was dated at Huron, South Dakota, and ran as follows:—
My dear Nephew Reuben,—You will no doubt be very much surprised to hear from an uncle whom you have never seen, but circumstances make it necessary that I should address this letter to you. I wish that my first lines to my nephew might be brighter, but our wishes cannot always be fulfilled, and we must bear up bravely under all trials that come to us.
Hear, then, the sad news that your father is dead. He lost his life by falling down a deep ravine on the morning of the 10th instant. We were out prospecting for a good mill location, and he slipped, and, before I could come to his aid, plunged headlong to the bottom. When I reached him he was unconscious, and lived but a short hour after. I am now arranging to have him buried to-morrow, and shall then follow this letter to Bend Center, to take charge of his affairs.
As you perhaps know, I met your father in Chicago. I loaned him quite a sum of money, and we went to South Dakota together. But of this and other important matters we will speak when we meet, which will be shortly after you receive this letter.