“Big Dave went back to bed, and I went out and sold what we had. It was so little that it didn’t take long to sell it. That was years ago. We came West. The country was really wild then; there was a great deal of lawlessness. We didn’t get settled down for several years; we hired to a man who had a contract to put up hay for the government, and we worked for him for a long time.
“Indians were thick as fleas on a dog then; some were camped near us once, and among them was a Mexican woman who could jabber a little English. Once, when I was feeling particularly resentful and sorrowful, I told her about my little Dave; and it was her jabbered words that showed me the way to peace. I wept for hours, but peace had come and has stayed. Ambition came again, but a different kind: I wanted the same peace to come to all hearts that came so late to mine, and I wanted to help bring it. I took the only course I knew. I have gone to others’ help every time there has been a chance. After Fanny married and Dave died, I had an ambition to save up four hundred dollars with which to buy an entrance into an old ladies’ home. Just before I got the full amount saved up, I found that young Eddie Carwell wanted to enter the ministry and needed help to go to college. I had just enough; so I gave it to him. Another time I had almost enough, when Charlie Rucker got into trouble over some mortgage business; so I used what I had that time to help him. Now I’ve given up the old ladies’ home idea and am saving up for the blue silk dress Dave would have liked me to have. I guess I’ll die some day and I want it to be buried in. I like to think I’m going to my two Daves then; and it won’t be hard,—especially if I have the blue silk on.”
Just then a sleepy little bird twittered outside, and the baby stirred a little. The first faint light of dawn was just creeping up the valley. I rose and said I must get back to camp. Mrs. O’Shaughnessy and I had both wept with Mrs. Mortimer over little Dave. We have all given up our first-born little man-child; so we felt near each other. We told Mrs. Mortimer that we had passed under the rod also. I kissed her toilworn old hands, and Mrs. O’Shaughnessy dropped a kiss on her old gray head as we passed out into the rose-and-gold morning. We felt that we were leaving a sanctified presence, and we are both of us better and humbler women because we met a woman who has buried her sorrow beneath faith and endeavor.
This doesn’t seem much like a letter, does it? When I started on this trip, I resolved that you should have just as much of the trip as I could give you. I didn’t know we would be so long getting to the hunting-ground, and I felt you would like to know of the people we meet. Perhaps my next letter will not be so tame. The hunting season opens to-morrow, but we are several days’ travel from the elk yet.
Elizabeth behaves queerly. She doesn’t want to go on, stay here, or go back. I am perfectly mystified. So far she has not told us a thing, and we don’t know to whom she is going or anything about it. She is a likable little lady, and I sincerely hope she knows what she is doing. It is bedtime and I must stop writing. We go on to-morrow.
With affectionate regards,
Elinore Rupert Stewart.