"'Tis pale
you look, and thin, I'm thinking. I'm getting to depend upon you, and the
thought of anything happening to you grieves the heart of me. In all
Kenmore there's no one as I lean on like you. There be nights when I look
out toward your house and see your light a-shining when all else is dark,
and say to myself, 'The master and me' over and over, and I'm less
lonely."
For a moment Farwell could not speak. Once an inward desire to laugh,
to scoff, would have driven him to supernatural gravity; now he merely
smiled with grave pleasure, and said:
"A tramp will do me good, Mrs. McAdam. Thank you. I'll take your words
with me for comfort and cheer."
The first night Farwell slept beside his fire, not ten miles from
Kenmore. He had revelled in his freedom all day, had played like a boy,
often retracing his steps, carefully using the same footprints, and
laughing as he imagined the confusion of any one trying to follow him;
the vague somebody being always Ledyard.
After a frugal meal, Farwell smoked his pipe, even attempted a snatch of
rollicking song, then, rolling himself in a blanket, fell into natural
and happy slumber.
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