"Good-evening, Jerry," he said gravely; "here is thy wife."
The young fellow crossed the floor at a bound with a smile that stayed on his face after every vestige of joy had died out of it.
The woman gave him a coarse, triumphant stare.
"I heard you was lookin' for me," she said, with a chuckle, "but you seemed kind o' s'prised after all."
Jerry stood perfectly still, with his hands at his sides. Behind him, where the light fell full upon it, Enoch could see the cradle. The old man placed the satchel on the step.
"I must go back and attend to the mail," he said, disappearing in the darkness.
A few hours later, just as Enoch had fitted the key in the store door and turned down the kerosene lamp, preparatory to blowing it out, Jerry appeared in the doorway.
"I've got to go away on the early train," he said, in a dull, husky voice; "she's going with me. I don't know how long I'll be gone, and I thought I'd like to leave the key of the house with you, if it won't be too much trouble."
"It won't be any trouble, Jerry. I'll take care of it for thee," said Enoch.
The hand that held out the key seemed to Enoch to be stretched toward him across a chasm. He felt a yearning disgust for the man on the other side.