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Jerry walked across the platform hesitatingly, and then came back.

“Would you mind locking up and coming outside, Mr. Embody?” he asked humbly; “I’d like to have a little talk with you.”

Enoch blew out the lamp and closed the door and locked it. He felt a physical shrinking from the moral squalor into which he was being dragged.

“What is it, Jerry?” he asked kindly.

“I’ve been thinking,” said the young man hurriedly, and in the same level, monotonous voice, “that families sometimes come to these new places without having any house ready, and of course it’s a good deal of expense for them to board, and I just wanted to say to you that if any person–well, say a widow with a b–family–I wouldn’t care to help a man that could rustle for himself–but a woman, you know, if she’s not very strong, and has a–a–family–why, I’d just as soon you’d let her have the house, and you needn’t say anything about the rent: I’ll fix that when I come back. I haven’t been to church and put anything in the collection since I’ve been here,”–his voice gave a suggestion of the old ring, and then fell back drearily,–“so I thought I’d hand you what I’d saved up, and you can use it for charitable purposes–groceries and little things that people might need, coming in without anything to start.”

He handed Enoch a roll of money, and the old man put it into his pocket.

“I’ll remember what thee says, Jerry. If any worthy family comes along, I’ll see that they do not want.”

“If I can, I’ll send you a little now and then,” the young fellow went on more cheerfully, “but I’d just as soon you wouldn’t mention it. I’ll be back sometime, there’s no doubt about that, but I can’t say just when. You can tell the folks that my–my wife,” he choked on the word, “didn’t feel satisfied here. She thinks it won’t agree with her. And I guess it won’t, she’s very bad off”–he turned away lingeringly, and then came back. “About the–the–crib,” he faltered, “if they happen to have a baby, I wouldn’t mind them using it. Babies are pretty generally respectable, no matter what their folks are. I was calculating,” he went on wistfully, “to get another box and hunt up some wheels, and I thought maybe they could rig it up with a pink parasol and use it to cart the baby ’round; you know if a woman isn’t very strong, it might save her a good deal–but then it’s too late now;” he turned away hopelessly.

“I guess I can manage that for thee, Jerry,” said Enoch; “I’m rather handy with tools. Thee needn’t worry.”

The two men stood still a moment in the moonlight.

“Good-by, Mr. Embody,” said Jerry.

He did not put out his hand. Enoch hesitated a little.

“Farewell,” he said, and his voice was not quite natural.

The next morning, when Enoch opened the outside letter-box to postmark the mail that had been dropped into it after the store was closed the night before, he found but one letter. It was addressed to Mrs. Josie Hart Sullivan, Pikeboro, Mo

IV.

“Are you the postmaster?”

Enoch dropped the tin scoop into the sugar-bin, and turned around. The voice was timid, almost appealing, and Enoch glanced from the pale, girlish face that confronted him to the bundle in her arms.

There was no mistaking the bundle. It was of that peculiar bulky shapelessness which betokens a very small infant.

“Yes, I’m the postmaster,” answered Enoch kindly; “is there anything I can do for thee?”

The young creature looked down, and a faint color came into her transparent face.

“I’ve just come in on the train,” she faltered. “I thought you might be able to tell me where to go. I haven’t very much money. I was sick on the way, and spent more than I expected. I–I”–she hesitated, and glanced at Enoch with a little expectant gasp.