I won't make you weep.
Never mind.

You could not help it.

And--I'll--get--over it--somehow.
Only don't cry." Then when she grew quiet again he kissed her and went out, smiling back at her as he went, and for fifteen years never saw her face again.
But month by month there came a letter telling him of her and her work, and this helped him to forget his pain.

But more and more often as the years went on, Jack French and his man Mackenzie sat long nights in the bare ranch house with a bottle between them, till Mackenzie fell under the table and Jack with his hard head and his lonely heart was left by himself, staring at the fire if in winter, or out of the window at the lake if in summer, till the light on the water grew red, to his great hurt in body and in soul.
One spring day in the sixteenth year, in the middle of the month of May, when Jack had driven to the Crossing for supplies, an unexpected letter met him, which gave him much concern and changed forever the even current of his life.

And this was the letter: 'My dear Jack,--You have not yet answered my last, you bad boy, but you know I do not wait for answers, or you would seldom hear from me.' "And that's true enough," murmured Jack.