He remembered Raines s last words-" Air ye goin' to leave the po' gal
to die sorrowin' fer ye ? " What happiness would be possible for
him with that lonely mountain-top and the white, drawn face
forever haunting him?
That very night a letter came, with a rude superscription-the first
from Easter. Within it was a poor tintype, from which Easter's
eyes looked shyly at him. Before he left he had tried in vain to get
her to the tent of an itinerant photographer. During his absence,
she had evidently gone of her own accord. The face was very
beautiful, and in it was an expression of questioning, modest pride. "Aren't you surprised? "it seemed to say-" and pleased? Only the face, with its delicate lines, and the throat and the shoulders were visible. She looked almost refined. And the note-it was badly spelled and written with great difficulty, but it touched him. She was lonely, she said, and she wanted him to come back. Lonely- that cry was in each line.
His response to this was an instant resolution to go back at once,
and, sensitive and pliant as his nature was, there was no hesitation
for him when his duty was clear and a decision once made. With
great care and perfect frankness he had traced the history of his
infatuation in a letter to his father, to be communicated when the
latter chose to his mother and sister.
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