By and by it came—only two words.
"The letter."
The letter! Where was it? I had not seen it—I had not thought to look for such a thing because her departure came so suddenly. A burning building close to our cabin, with wind blowing the flames toward her, had caused the fright and heart failure which deprived me of Olga—but a letter! I would search for it.
Among her writing materials I found it. A sealed packet, directed to me in her own dainty Swedish handwriting.
I cannot reproduce it here. It was for my eyes only, and written a week previously; but she said she was expecting soon to be called away. She did not wish to worry me with goodbyes, and in truth there was no need of saying them for she would be as constantly with me as ever, even though I could not always see her. She did not want me to forget her and hoped I could conveniently manage to keep the poor little body (in which she had lived for nearly thirty years) quite close to me where I could sometimes look upon her face.
All this and much more she had written; each letter and word of which comforted me as only Olga knew how to comfort, because she understood my very soul.
We had been made for each other. We were souls twinned in creation by a higher power than many know; but it had been given us to understand in her lifetime, and now that she had been called away for a season I must bear it as patiently as possible for her sake, and I would. God helping me, I would bear it! And my unreasoning grief should not disturb her quietude.
The day passed.
In the evening a knock at the door brought me back to my objective senses. I had been oblivious to the outside world all day.
"We thought you might like some coffee and supper, and I have brought it to you," said a kind miner, who was also a neighbor.