Just as I had settled down to the
old easy ways which my absence had made doubly dear to me, when we
should have been drawn closer to each other than ever, and my
dependence on him was greatest, he announced his purpose. It was only
yesterday. I returned from my accustomed afternoon visit to the
Wardens to find him rummaging the house for a few of his more personal
belongings and stowing them away in a small, blue tin trunk that a
little while before had adorned the counter in the store.
"I am going to New York," he said, not giving me time to inquire into
his strange proceeding.
I laughed. Tim was joking. This was some odd prank. He had borrowed
the tin trunk and was giving me a travesty on Tip Pulsifer fleeing over
the mountain from his petulant spouse: for last night Tim and I had had
a little tiff. For the first time I had forgotten the post-prandial
pipe, and undismayed by the horrors of the famine in India or the
tribulations of Sister Flora Martin, journeyed up the road to sit at
Mary's side.
"Over the mountain, eh, Tim?" I laughed.
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