Besides, the opportunity for an apotheosis of self-sacrifice was past.

Nothing remained now but to refuse the proffered bribe of claim and cabin by letter, for he must not wait their return.

He tore a leaf from a blotted diary, begun and abandoned long since, and essayed to write.

Scrawl after scrawl was torn up, until his fury had cooled down to a frigid third personality.

"Mr.John Ford regrets to inform his late partners that their tender of house, of furniture," however, seemed too inconsistent with the pork-barrel table he was writing on; a more eloquent renunciation of their offer became frivolous and idiotic from a caricature of Union Mills, label and all, that appeared suddenly on the other side of the leaf; and when he at last indited a satisfactory and impassioned exposition of his feelings, the legible addendum of "Oh, ain't you glad you're out of the wilderness!"-- the forgotten first line of a popular song, which no scratching would erase--seemed too like an ironical postscript to be thought of for a moment.