Mister Gael, dere frend,—
You have ben too good to me an it has ben too hard for you to keep me when you were all the wile amissin her an it hurts me to think of how it must have ben terrible hard for you all this winter to see me where you had ben ust to seem her an me wearin her pretty things all the wile. Now dere frend this must not be no more. I will not stay to trouble you. You have ben awful free-hearted. When you come back from your wanderin an tryin to get over your bein so unhappy you will find your house quiet an peaceful an you will not be hurt by me no more. I am not able to say all I am feelin about your goodness an I hev not always ben as kind to you in my thoughts an axions but that has ben my own fault not yours. I want you to beleave this, Mister Gael. I am goin back to Pierre’s ranch to work on his land an some day I will be hopin to see you come ridin in an I will keep on learnin as well as I can an mebbe you will not be ashamed of me. I feel awful bad to go but I would feel more bad to stay when it must hurt you so. Respectably
JOAN
There were blistered spots above that pathetic, mistaken signature. The poor girl had meant to sign herself “Respectfully,” and somehow that half-broke his heart.
He drank the strong coffee Wen Ho brought for him, two great cups of it, and he ate a piece of broiled elk meat. Then he went out again and walked rapidly down the trail. It was not yet dark; the world was in a soft glow of rose and violet, opalescent lights. The birds were singing in a hundred chantries. And there, through the firs, a sight to stop his heart, Joan came walking toward him, graceful, free, a swinging figure, bareheaded, her rags girded beautifully about her. And up and up to him she came soundlessly over the pine needles and through the wet snow-patches, looking at him steadfastly and tenderly, without a smile. She came and stood before him, still without dropping her sad, grave look.
“Mr. Gael,” she said, “I hev come back. I got out yonder an’”—her breast heaved and a sort of terror came into her eyes—“an’ the world was awful lonely. There ain’t a creature out yonder to care fer me, fer me to care fer. It seemed like as if it was all dead. I couldn’t abear it.”
She put out her hand wistfully asking for pity, but he fell upon his knees and wrapped his hungry arms about her. “Joan,” he sobbed, “Joan! Don’t leave me. Don’t—I couldn’t bear it!” He looked up at her, his worn face wet with tears. “Don’t leave me, Joan! I want you. Don’t you understand?”
Her deep gray eyes filled slowly with light, she put a hand on either side of his face and bent her lips to his. “I never thought you’d be wantin’ me,” she said.