“Bedad, but the place looks betther than iver Oi'd belaved, wid the gyurl Oi've got tindin' to it. She's that lazy she goes ter slape swapin' the flure. Jack, would ye moind hilpin' me move the bid; shure, it's rale mahogany, an' so heavy it breaks me back intoirely to push it 'round.”
He took hold willingly enough, and the two together ran the heavy contrivance across the room to the position selected. Once a leg caught in the rag carpet, and Keith lifted it out, bending low to get a firmer grip. Then he held out his hand to the girl.
“It is not going to be good-bye then, Miss Hope; I'll find you.”
She smiled up into his eyes, much of the weariness gone from her face.
“I am going to believe that,” she answered, gladly, “because I want to.”
Mrs. Murphy lingered until his steps sounded on the stairs, as he slowly felt his way down through the darkness.
“He do be a moighty foine bye, Jack Keith,” she said, apparently addressing the side wall. “Oi wish Oi'd a knowed him whin Oi was a gyurl; shure, it's not Murphy me noime'd be now, Oi'm t'inkin'.”
Left alone, the girl bowed her head on her hands, a hot tear stealing down through her fingers. As she glanced up again, something that glittered on the floor beside the bed caught her eyes. She stopped and picked it up, holding the trinket to the light, staring at it as though fascinated. It was the locket Keith had taken from the neck of the dead man at Cimmaron Crossing. Her nerveless fingers pressed the spring, and the painted face within looked up into her own, and still clasping it within her hand, she sank upon her knees, burying her face on the bed.
“Where did he get that?” her lips kept repeating. “Where did he ever get that?”