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It was chill and dismal in the office. I had let the stove go out for fear of fire. I was cold and hungry and anxious to get home to my supper. I gave out everybody’s mail that was waiting; and for the thousandth time told Vance Wallace there was nothing for him. He’ll come and ask as regular as clockwork. I got that mail assorted and put aside in a hurry. There was no dilly dallying with postal cards, and how I ever come to give a second look at Nathan Brightman’s postal, Heaven only knows!

It was from St. Louis, written with pencil in large characters and signed, “Collins,” nothing else; just “Collins.” It read:

“Dear Brightman: Be on hand tomorrow, Tuesday at 10. A.M. promptly. Important meeting of the board. Your own interest demands your presence. Whatever you do, don’t fail. In haste, Collins.”

I went to the door to see if there was any one left standing around: but the night was so raw and chill, every last one of the loungers had disappeared. Vance Wallace would of been willing enough to hang about to see me home; but that was a thing I’d broken him of long ago. I locked things up and went on home, just ashivering as I went, it was that black and penetrating—worse than a downright freeze, I thought.

After I had had my supper and got comfortably fixed front of the fire, and glanced over the St. Louis paper and was just starting to read my seaside Library novel, I got thinking, somehow, about that postal card of Nath Brightman’s. To a person that knew B. from hill’s foot, it was just as plain as day that if that card laid on there in the office, Mr. Brightman would miss that important meeting in St. Louis in the morning. It wasn’t anything to me, of course, except it made me uncomfortable and I couldn’t rest or get my mind fixed on the story I was reading. Along about nine o’clock, I flung aside the book and says to myself:

“Elizabeth Stock, you a fool, and you know it.” There ain’t much use telling how I put on my rubbers and waterproof, covered the fire with ashes, took my umbrella and left the house.

I carried along the postoffice key and went on down and got out that postal card—in fact, all of the Brightmans’ mail—wasn’t any use leaving part of it, and started for “the house on the hill” as we mostly call it. I don’t believe anything could of induced me to go if I had known before hand what I was undertaking. It was drizzling and the rain kind of turned to ice when it struck the ground. If it hadn’t been for the rubbers, I’d of taken more than one fall. As it was, I took one good and hard one on the footbridge. The wind was sweeping down so swiftly from the Northwest, looked like it carried me clean off my feet before I could clutch the handrail. I found out about that time that the stitches had come out of my old rubbers that I’d sewed about a month before, and letting the water in soaking my feet through and through. But I’d got more than good and started and I wouldn’t think of turning around.

Nathan Brightman has got kind of steps cut along the side of the hill, going zig-zag. What you would call a gradual ascent, and making it easy to climb. That is to say, in good weather. But Lands! There wasn’t anything easy that night, slipping back one step for every two; clutching at the frozen twigs along the path; and having to use my umbrella half the time for a walking stick; like a regular Alpine climber. And my heart would most stand still at the way the cedar trees moaned and whistled like doleful organ tones; and sometimes sighing deep and soft like dying souls in pain.

Then I was a fool for not putting on something warm underneath that mackintosh. I could of put on my knitted wool jacket just as easy as not. But the day had been so mild, it bamboozled us into thinking spring was here for good; especially when we were all looking and longing for it; and the orchards ready to bud, too.

But I forgot all the worry and unpleasantness of the walk when I saw how Nath Brightman took on over me bringing him that postal card. He made me sit down longside the fire and dry my feet,