“Waal, then,” she answered stubbornly, “it’s John Willett Barr.”
At her reply the younger man’s face grew deathly pale, and he started up from his chair, but Kit thrust him back into his seat, saying:
“What are you goin’ ter do with it, pa?” she inquired, cautiously.
“I promised old Sandy on my oath ter keep it till the right one cums erlong ter claim it, an’ I mean ter keep my word. The right one is here, gal. Thar he sits. So trot thet letter out, an’ don’t parley long with me if you knows when yer well off.”
Polly stared at the younger man in utter bewilderment for a moment. Then, turning slowly, she stepped quietly into the cabin after the precious document; an unusual gleam of joy lighted up her face and a suppressed excitement shone in her eyes. Under her breath she said: “Sumhow er ruther I felt he wuz the right one.”
Too truly, John Barr realized in that painful moment that he whom he sought was now dead to him; that the father from whom he had been parted so many years was sleeping that long, dreamless sleep in the clay mound on the hillside, which marked his last resting place. As he turned to look at the face of old, honest Kit, who had been his father’s friend during those long years of forced exile, a happy smile lit up the old miner’s rugged features as he pointed with his finger to the rock cliff near the old spruce vine, and said, in an exultant, trembling voice:
“Thar he be, stranger—jes’ as I hev seen him many a night—yer dad—my pard—pore old Sandy!”
With an eager voice John Barr sprang forward, and the mountains echoed and re-echoed the plaintive cry of “Father! Father!” But his outstretched arms clasped only emptiness and the darkening shadows of the rapidly approaching night.