Part 33 (1/2)

CHAPTER IX

THE SUMMONS

The winter earing away The wild foere passing northward, landward The ga, the month between the seasons for the tribes, the time of want, the leanest period of the year

Meriwether Lewis, alone onein the comfortable cabin which served as a house for his, as was his wont His little Indian dog, always his steady companion, had taken its place on the top of the flatted stump which served as a desk, near the maps and papers which Lewis had pushed away Here the sly upon its master

The captain did not notice it He did not at first hear the rap on the door, nor the footfall of the eant Ordway?” said he presently, looking up

Ordway saluted

”So for you, sir It seems to be a letter”

”A letter! How could that be?”

”That is the puzzle, sir,” said Ordway, extending a folded and sealed bit of paper ”We do not kno it came Charbonneau's wife, the Indian woht it to me, and I saas addressed to you It must have been overlooked by you some tirowing pale ”That is all, I think, Sergeant,” he added

Now alone, he turned toward the letter, which lay upon the table His face lighted with a wondrous s which watched his every move for which every fiber of his being clamored!

He kneithout one look, that the nuure ”4” He opened the letter slowly There fell froht, until he turned it over Then he saw it looking up at him--her face indeed!

It was a little silhouette in black, done in that day before the cah impossible The artist, skilled as were many in this curious forazed with a sudden leap of his pulses upon the features outlined before him--the profile so cleanly cut and lofty--the hair low over the forehead, the chin round and fir lashes of her eyes were visible, just as in life Yes, it was her face!

[Illustration: ”Her face indeed!”]

And now he read the letter, which covered many closely written sheets:

Meriwether Lewis, I said to you that ht be This ti That is for er to deter I shall know, else long since there would have been no need ofthis letter to the others

Not one of the you back! Since you now have this one, let it advise you that she rote it is grieved that you gaze upon this little portrait, and not upon the face of her whoood likeness, they tell me; but would you not rather it were myself?

Where are you? I cannot tell What adversities have been yours? I cannot tell that You cannot knohat grief you have caused by your long absence You cannot kno many hearts you have made sad You cannot kno you have delayed--destroyed--plans norance, each of the other, now I do not knohere you are--you do not knohere I ulf is fixed We cannot touch hands across it

As I know, this will not move you; but I cannot restrain this reproach I cannot help telling you that you have made me suffer by your silence, by your absence Do Iat you with reproach in otten your childhood friend! I may be dead as you read--would you care? I have been in need--yet you have not coure to yourself what has happened to all my plans and dreams for you Even I cannot tell of that, because, as I write, it all lies in the future--that future which is the present for you as you sit reading this All I know is that as you read it uess hohere these presents may find you; for how shall I knoise or how faithful er has been? Are you on the prairie still, Meriwether Lewis?

Is it winter? Does the snow lie deep? Are the winds keen and biting? Are you well fed? Are you war?

How can I answer all these questions? Yet they come to my mind as I write