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Updated: May 16, 2025
The dew had not ceased to glitter, and the sun was hardly more than risen when Father Le Claire and the crowd of boys, reinforced now by Tell Mapleson and Jim Conlow, started bravely out, determined to find the boy who had been missing for what seemed ages to us. "If we find O'mie, we'll send word by the fastest runner, and you must ring the church bell," Le Claire arranged with Cam.
"In no way, then, has Philip ever done you any wrong? Have you ever known him to deceive anybody? Has he been a young man of double dealing, coarse and rude with some company and refined with others? A father cannot know all that his children do. James Conlow has little notion of what you have told me of yourself. Now don't spare my boy if you know anything."
I had nearly reached the Anderson home, and the noisy gayety of the party was in my ears, when two persons met at the gate and went slowly in together. It was Amos Judson and Lettie Conlow. "Well, of all the arrangements, now, that is the best," I exclaimed, as I went in after them. Tillhurst was talking to Marjie, who did not see me enter. "Phil Baronet!
Just above his temple was a deep bruise, and his right hand was bound with a white bandage. Five years later, one dark September night, by the dry bed of the Arickaree Creek in Colorado, I heard the story of that bandage and that bruise. "And you'll be sure to keep still about my dad, too, won't you?" Jim Conlow urged.
I believe now that Conlow would have killed Jim had he suspected the boy's part in that night's work. I have never broken faith with Jim, although Heaven knows I have had cause enough to wish never to hear the name of Conlow again. One more boy was not in our line, O'mie, still missing from the ranks, and now my heart was heavy.
Even Chris Mead, always a quiet, stern man, sat with head bowed on the railing of the pew before him during the recital. It was noted afterwards that Judson did not remain, but took Lettie Conlow home as soon as the doxology was ended.
"I'll bet I'm jutht a Injun mythelf." "Then you've got some little baby girl's scalp," grinned Jim Conlow. "'Tain't no 'pothum'th, anyhow," rejoined Bud; and we laughed our fears away. That evening Aunt Candace sent me home with Marjie to take some fresh doughnuts to Mrs. Whately.
Some one entered the room, and with the picture of Marjie still in his eyes, he turned to see Lettie Conlow. She was flashily dressed, and a handsome new fur cape was clasped about her shoulders. Self-possession, the lifetime habit of the lawyer and judge, kept his countenance impassive.
Her sorrow she hid away so completely there were few who guessed what her thoughts were. Lettie Conlow was not deceived, for jealousy has sharp eyes. O'mie understood, for O'mie had carried a sad, hungry heart underneath his happy-go-lucky carelessness all the years of his life. Aunt Candace was a woman who had overcome a grief of her own, and had been cheery and bright down the years.
I don't know what it is about some men makes girls act so; but now, there's Lettie Conlow, she's just real fond of me." There was a ring of authority in his last words, to which Mrs. Whately had insensibly come to yield. She sat for a long time trying to see a way out of all this tangled web of her days. At last, she said slowly: "Marjie isn't twenty-one, but she's old for her years.
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