"Well?" I exclaimed, angered by his mood.
"This is two weeks old, Mark," he said, handing me the paper.
"What of it?" I cried querulously, putting on my hat and moving to the door.
My hand was on the knob turning it, when Tim said, "Mary has left the valley."
It did not bother me much when he said that. I was getting so used to being knocked about that a blow or two more made little difference. The knob was not turned though. It shot back with a click, and I leaned against the door, staring at my brother.
"And when did she go?" I asked. "And where—back to Kansas?"
"To New York," Tim answered, "and with Weston—she has married Weston."
I was glad the door was there, for that trip over the mountain, with the creek, and the powwowing and all that, had left me still a little wobbly. Tim's announcement was not adding to my spirit. Long I gazed at his quiet face; and I knew well enough that he was speaking the truth. And, perhaps, after all, the truth was best. It was all over, anyway, and we were just where we started before she came to the valley.
I was just where I was before I found that note lying on the door-sill. I had been foolish, sitting there on the floor reading that message of hers that she had belied. But that was only for a minute, and I would never be foolish again. Trust me for that.
"She has married Weston," I said. "Well, the little flirt!"