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 "Yes honey, you got him."

She closed her eyes, and a weary placidity settled over her face.

"I went out to get him, Texas, before he—could get—you."

The last of it trailed away as if it blended with death. He took her hand and pressed it to his bosom, murmuring endearments to her in the panic of his grief. She reached up and touched his face; clasped her cold hands about his neck. He bent with her gentle pressure and kissed her lips.

So she smiled, and died, peace in her face, as if absolution had come to her soul in that caress. Hartwell bowed his head on her poor breast in agony that rent his heart.

Hartwell joined Uncle Boley in the shop after a while, unashamed of the traces of grief in his face.

"She was pure gold, Uncle Boley, as true a friend as a man ever had in this world," said he.

Uncle Boley was sitting in front of the door, as if on guard, trouble in his face, his shoemaker's hammer on the floor beside him.

"Did she speak to you before she went, Texas?"

Texas told him what she had said. Uncle Boley looked up, his face bright with admiration, his eyes tender for the great sacrifice that she had made.