It was well he had gone so soon, well she had no longer to grow into the
charm of his society; for he belonged to the lady, and was not hers. Thus
she ate her dinner with the indifference of sorrow.
Then she took out the envelope, and counted over the money. Forty dollars
he had given her. She knew he had kept but five for himself. How wonderful
that he should have done all that for her! It seemed a very great wealth
in her possession. Well, she would use it as sparingly as possible, and
thus be able the sooner to return it all to him. Some she must use, she
supposed, to buy food; but she would do with as little as she could. She
might sometimes shoot a bird, or catch a fish; or there might be berries
fit for food by the way. Nights she must stop by the way at a respectable
house. That she had promised. He had told her of awful things that might
happen to her if she lay down in the wilderness alone. Her lodging would
sometimes cost her something. Yet often they would take her in for
nothing. She would be careful of the money.
She studied the name on the envelope. George Trescott Benedict, 2----
Walnut Street, Philadelphia, Penn. The letters were large and angular, not
easy to read; but she puzzled them out. It did not look like his writing.
She had watched him as he wrote the old woman's address in his little red
book. He wrote small, round letters, slanting backwards, plain as print,
pleasant writing to read.
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