"He was within a week of thirty."
That was within a few days of his own age. At thirty, Jim Wentworth, clinging to life, had been wrenched from it; at thirty, he himself had thrown it away. Wentworth had shouldered his duties manfully; he had been blind to them. But it was not too late to do something. He was being led as by Marley's ghost to one new vision of life after another. He saw love—with death grinning over love's shoulder; he was to be given a taste of fatherhood,—the grave at his feet.
"Do you ever hear from the people back home?" he asked abruptly.
"Not very often," she answered. "After the old folks went I sorter got out of tech with the others."
"What became of the homestead?"
"It was sold little by little when father was sick. When he died there was n't much left. That went to pay the debts."
"Who lives there now?"
"Let me see—I don't think any one is there now. Last I heard, it was fer sale."
"Who holds it?"
"Deacon Staples. Leastways it was him who held the notes."