"I suppose it was a favorite book of hers and all that," suggested Dan.
"I don't think anybody had ever opened that book," replied Ware, smiling. "It was brand-new—not a scratch on it."
"And afterward?" asked Allen, anxious for the rest of the story.
"Well, sir, I passed through there four years afterward and found the same people living in the little cottage there at that settlement. Strange to say, that woman had stayed there a couple of years after the baby was born. Hadn't any place to go, I reckon. Nobody ever went near her, they said; but finally she picked up and left; took the baby with her. She had never been well afterward, and finally, seeing she hadn't long to live, she struck out for home. Wanted to die among her own people, maybe. I don't know the rest of the story, Allen. What I've told you is all I know,—it's like finding a magazine in a country hotel where you haven't anything to read and dip into the middle of a serial story. I never told anybody about that but my wife. I had a feeling that if that woman took such pains to bury herself up there in the wilderness it wasn't my business to speak of it. But it's long ago now—most everything that an old chap like me knows is!"
Thatcher rose and crossed to the stove and took the book. He turned it over and scrutinized it carefully, scanned the blank pages and the silk-faced lids in the glow from the stove, and then handed it to Allen.
"What does that say there, that small gold print on the inside of the cover?"
"That's the binder's name—Z. Fenelsa."
Allen closed the book, passed his hand over the smooth covers, and handed it back to Ware.
"What did you say the woman's name was, Ware?" asked Thatcher.
"Didn't say, but the name she went by up there was Forbes. She told me it was an assumed name. The people she stayed with told me they never knew any better."