Added to these things, and perhaps
the most depressing of all his difficulties, was the utter
loneliness of the task, the feeling that it mattered little to
any one whether the Clark family worked or not, or indeed whether
they lived or died. A perfectly good American family was here
being wasted, with the precious land they lived on, because no
one had taken the trouble to make them feel that they were a
part of this Great American Job.
As we went back to the house, a freckled-nosed neighbour's boy
came in at the gate.
"A letter for you, Mr. Clark," said he. "I brought it up with our
mail."
"A letter!" exclaimed Mrs. Clark.
"A letter!" echoed at least three of the children in unison.
"Probably a dun from Brewster," said Mr. Clark discouragingly.
I felt a curious sensation about the heart, and an eagerness of
interest I have rarely experienced. I had no idea what a mere
letter--a mere unopened unread letter--would mean to a family
like this.
"It has no stamp on it!" exclaimed the older girl.
Mrs. Clark turned it over wonderingly in her hands. Mr. Clark
hastily put on a pair of steel-bowed spectacles.
"Let me see it," he said, and when he also had inspected it
minutely he solemnly tore open the envelope and drew forth my
letter.
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