His first day in Chicago ended with the long letter he wrote to Justine, an epistle teeming with enthusiasm and joy, brimming over with descriptions and experiences, not least of which was the story of Christopher Barlow.
CHAPTER IX.
THE ENCOUNTER WITH CRAWLEY.
Justine received his letter at the end of the week. The three days intervening between his departure and its arrival had seemed almost years. Since their marriage day they had not been separated for more than twelve consecutive hours. It was the first night she had spent alone—the night which followed his departure. In her brief, blissful married life it was the only night she had spent without his arm for a pillow.
The days were bleak and oppressive; she lived in a daze, almost to the point of unconsciousness. The nights brought dismal forebodings, cruel dreams, and sudden awakenings. She felt lost, in strange and unfriendly surroundings; where love, tenderness, and joy had been the reigning forces there was now only loneliness. No object seemed familiar to her. Everything that had given personality to the little farm was gone with the whistle of a locomotive, the clacking of railway coaches, the clanging of a bell. The landscape was not the same, the sky was no longer blue, the moon and stars were somber. Yank, the dog, moped about the place, purposeless, sad-eyed, and with no ambition in his erstwhile frisky tail. Jud had not been gone more than half a day when curious neighbors pulled up their horses at the gate.
"Heerd from Jud? How's he gittin' 'long in Chickawgo?"
"I haven't heard, Mr. Martin, but I am expecting a letter soon. How long does it take mail to get here from Chicago?"
"Depends a good deal on how fer it is."
"Oh, it's over two hundred miles, I know."