John, if the Santa Fe road had 'a been for sale for a cent
then, I couldn't 'a bought a spike.
"At about the height of my ill-luck, I got a letter from Mabel
Verne--she had another name, but that don't matter--and she asked me
again to come to her; to have a home, and care and devotion. It wasn't a
love-sick letter, but it was one of them strong, tender, _fetching_
letters. It was unselfish, it asked very little of me, and offered a
good deal.
"I thought over it all night, and decided at last to go. What better was
I than this woman? Surely she was better educated, better bred. She had
made one mistake, I had made many. She had no friends on earth; I didn't
seem to have any, either. I hadn't had a letter from either of my
married sisters for six or eight years, then. We could trust one
another, and have an object in life in the education of the child. I'd
be no worse off than I was, anyway.
"The next morning I felt better. I got ready to leave, bid all my fellow
flat-wheels good-by; and had a gig ordered to take me to the train--the
doctor had given me two-hundred dollars a short time before--'from a
lady friend.
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