“Wait,” he said; “I’ll be back with the dry things in a minute.”
So in the new, dry boots, a reefer, raincoat and storm hat—fed, warmed, forgiven, the man who had so failed went out from Annie Laurie’s door.
“We’ll be waiting at the storehouse for you,” she called after him. And half an hour later, with his saddle bags well filled, he was off up the mountain, never to come into their lives again.
“Come back by the fire,” pleaded Azalea. “Come, Sam, come back and get warm before you go to bed.”
“I don’t see how it can be so chilly again after all the lovely days we’ve had,” Annie Laurie remarked. She was deeply moved and glad of the opportunity to talk about something besides the man who had just ridden away from them.
So the three went in and sat before the fire.
“Oh, Sam,” said Azalea, “you didn’t ask Mr. Disbrow who your father really was.”
“I don’t suppose he knew,” Sam said, “and I’m not sure I want to.” He dropped his head in his hands and sat staring at the dying fire.
“Oh, well,” Annie Laurie said, “America’s for individuals. That’s what Mr. Summers says and that’s what I think too. And as an individual, Sam, you’ll pass muster, eh?”
Sam laughed rather bitterly.