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“I think thee’s very cosy,” Enoch said, smiling gravely; “when does thee look for thy wife?”

“Just as soon as she’s able,” said Jerry, drawing an empty nail-keg confidentially toward Enoch and seating himself; “you see”–

He stopped short. The cradle behind the old man was still rocking gently.

“I guess it won’t be very long,” he added indifferently.

III.

The south-bound train was late, and the few loafers who found their daily excitement in its arrival had drifted away as it grew dark, leaving no one but Enoch on the platform. When the train whistled the station agent opened the office door and his kerosene lamp sent a shaft of light out into the darkness.

There was the usual noisy banter among the trainmen, and none of them seemed to notice the woman who alighted from the platform of the passenger coach and came toward Enoch.

She stood in the light of the doorway, so that the old man could see her tawdry dress and the travel-dimmed red and white of her painted face.

“Is there a man named Jerry Sullivan livin’ in this town?” she asked.

Enoch was conscious of a vague disappointment.

“Yes,” he said, half reluctantly, “he lives here. I suppose thee’s his wife.”

The woman looked at him curiously. Then she laughed.

“Yes, I suppose I am,” she said; “can you show me where he lives?”

“I can’t show thee very well in the dark, but it isn’t far. If thee’ll wait a minute, I’ll take thy satchel and go with thee.”

He brought the mail-bag and picked up the stranger’s valise.

“Thy husband’s been looking for thee,” he said, as they went along the path that led across a vacant lot to the street.

The woman did not reply at once. She seemed intent upon gathering her showy skirts out of the dust. When she spoke, her voice trembled on the verge of a laugh.

“That so? I’ve been lookin’ for him, too. Thought I’d give him a pleasant surprise.”

“He’s got his house about finished.”

The woman stopped in the path.

“His house,” she sneered; “he must be rattled if he thinks I’ll live in a place like this–forty miles from nowhere.”

They walked on in silence after that to the door of Jerry’s shanty. There was a light inside, and the smell of cooking mingled with the resinous odor of the new lumber. Jerry was executing a difficult passage in a very light opera to the somewhat trying accompaniment of frying ham. The solo stopped abruptly when Enoch knocked.

“Come in,” shouted the reckless voice of the singer, “let the good angels come in, come in!”

Enoch opened the door.

“Good-evening, Jerry,” he said gravely; “here is thy wife.”

The young fellow crossed the floor at a bound with a smile that stayed on his face after every vestige of joy had died out of it.

The woman gave him a coarse, triumphant stare.

“I heard you was lookin’ for me,” she said, with a chuckle, “but you seemed kind o’ s’prised after all.”

Jerry stood perfectly still, with his hands at his sides. Behind him, where the light fell full upon it, Enoch could see the cradle. The old man placed the satchel on the step.

“I must go back and attend to the mail,” he said, disappearing in the darkness.

A few hours later, just as Enoch had fitted the key in the store door and turned down the kerosene lamp, preparatory to blowing it out, Jerry appeared in the doorway.

“I’ve got to go away on the early train,” he said, in a dull, husky voice; “she’s going with me. I don’t know how long I’ll be gone, and I thought I’d like to leave the key of the house with you, if it won’t be too much trouble.”

“It won’t be any trouble, Jerry. I’ll take care of it for thee,” said Enoch.

The hand that held out the key seemed to Enoch to be stretched toward him across a chasm. He felt a yearning disgust for the man on the other side.