My hand was on the knob turning it, when Tim said, "Mary has left the
valley."
It did not bother me much when he said that. I was getting so used to
being knocked about that a blow or two more made little difference.
The knob was not turned though. It shot back with a click, and I
leaned against the door, staring at my brother.
"And when did she go?" I asked. "And where--back to Kansas?"
"To New York," Tim answered, "and with Weston--she has married Weston."
I was glad the door was there, for that trip over the mountain, with
the creek, and the powwowing and all that, had left me still a little
wobbly. Tim's announcement was not adding to my spirit. Long I gazed
at his quiet face; and I knew well enough that he was speaking the
truth. And, perhaps, after all, the truth was best. It was all over,
anyway, and we were just where we started before she came to the valley.
I was just where I was before I found that note lying on the door-sill.
I had been foolish, sitting there on the floor reading that message of
hers that she had belied.
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