“Sarah,” her husband began, “I’ve found a way of gettin’ rid of the Wyoming land. And though it’s robbery and a loss, I’m goin’ to take it.”
“But Josiah—”
“The Shinone Land Company of Billings, Montana, offers me two thousand dollars. The fact that they offer me anything at all makes me suspicious. But even a dollar of tax—well, I can’t feel I have a right to. So there’s an end of that fond story.”
He threw the letter over into her lap.
Sarah took it. But she did not read it. She was dwelling on his tone and on the breaking that it seemed to cover. She knew for what this land was symbol, in Josiah’s mind. She had no hope of it. But she feared to have its going added to the long list of other things now gone. As a property, it might be a worthless drain. As an idea, it still meant much to him. Her spirit faltered at the thought of this last mark of his enthusiastic youth erased by the present. Turning to look at him, Sarah was seconded in her conviction. Josiah was resting his head in his two hands, elbows upon the table. And his gaze went past her—far beyond. It seemed to be following the swift passage of a hope. This investment had not been the dearest portion of his hopes. Josiah was no materialist. Simply, it was the last. And now it was going—vanishing—to join the other ghosts.
Sarah rose and came to his side. She placed her hands on his two shoulders.
“Josiah,” she said.
The man gazed on.
“Josiah!”
“Well?”