It brought back
to her what Boswell had told her of his relations with Farwell Maxwell,
her Anton Farwell. She could now, with her broader, more mature reason,
understand the devotion the cripple had given the one man who, in the
empty years, had taken him without reservation, had ignored his
limitations, and had been his friend and comrade.
Suddenly she asked:
"Have you heard from--from Master Farwell lately?" The question startled
Boswell.
"Yes. I had a letter yesterday. He has been ill. That squaw woman, Long
Jean, took care of him. The letter sounded restless. There'll be trouble
with Farwell before we get through. My letters are evidently lacking
power, and your silence baffles him."
"Poor Master Farwell!"
"I fancy he thought Joan Moss would go to him. It has been hard work to
build a barrier between him and her that could satisfy, now that he
believes you have told her of his being among the living."
"What have you said to him all this time?"
Boswell shifted his position, and Priscilla saw the haggard, careworn
look spread over his face. By sudden insight she realized that he looked
old, pitiful, and far from well, and her heart filled with sympathy.
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