The old man smiled, and Bud slapped his leg gleefully.
“Great—great! Oh my, but who'd a thought of it?” he grunted.
“They say it 'ud done you good to have been there the nex' mornin' an' heurd the cussin' recurd busted—but me an' the filly was forty miles away. He got out a warrant for me for hoss-stealin', but the sheriff was for me, an' though he hunted high an' low he never could find me.”
“Well, it went on for a month, an' I got the old man's note, sent by the sheriff:
“'To Hillard Watts, Wher-Ever Found.
“'Come on home an' fetch yo' preacher. Can't afford to loose the filly, an' the gal has been off her feed ever since you left.
“'Jobe Galloway.'”
“Oh, Bud, I'll never forgit that home-comin' when she met me at the gate an' kissed me an' laughed a little an' cried a heap, an' we walked in the little parlor an' the preacher made us one.
“Nor of that happy, happy year, when all life seemed a sweet dream now as I look back, an' even the memory of it keeps me happy. Memory is a land that never changes in a world of changes, an' that should show us our soul is immortal, for memory is only the reflection of our soul.”
His voice grew more tender, and low: “Toward the last of the year I seed her makin' little things slyly an' hidin' 'em away in the bureau drawer, an' one night she put away a tiny half-finished little dress with the needle stickin' in the hem—just as she left it—just as her beautiful hands made the last stitch they ever made on earth....