“Jim—our Jim—wrote that—or painted it—or—or—It’s Jim, true as preachin’!”
“Huh! then all I can say is that this paragon of a Jim has a mighty poor style of writing. Looks more as if that lamb had bumped its itsy—witsy—heady—and made it bleed. That’s some Indian ‘mark’ that the maker of the basket put on it. Don’t try to get up any excitement over that.”
Alfy shook her head but Dorothy did not look up. She was searching the soft, wilted grass that lined the basket; and, in the bottom, tied to a bunch of faded flowers was a little glistening stone. The pebble was marked by another D, traced in the red juice of some plant.
The basket went one way, the lamb another as Dorothy sprang to her feet and danced for very joy.
“Yes, it’s from Jim—it’s from Jim! And he’s alive—somewhere he is alive! Oh! I am so glad, so glad!”
Alfy was glad, too, of this reminder of the lad’s existence, but she was also ashamed of him.
“Huh! I don’t see what there’s to be so tickled over, for my part! Jim Barlow’s actin’ like a regular simpleton. And he’s mean, too. He’s meaner ’n pussley, makin’ everybody such a lot of trouble. Folks riding night and day to hunt for him—some out scourin’ round this very minute—and him just stayin’ away ’cause—’cause—”
“’Cause what, Alfaretta Babcock?” demanded Molly sternly. As always she was loyal to her beloved Dorothy whose joy Alfy was rapidly spoiling by her contempt for the truant.
“’Cause, I s’pose he hasn’t any decent clothes to come home in. He didn’t take his with him and clothes don’t grow on trees, even in Colorado. But—if I knew where he was I’d take ’em to him and give him a piece o’ my mind along with ’em.”