Sam knelt for a moment with his face beside his wife—­what he said or did the Lord only knew, but the doctor, who was of a speculative mind, afterward said that when Sam appeared at the door he showed the first Pike face in which he had ever seen any signs of a soul.

Sam went to the sod house, where lived the oldest woman in the camp, and briefly announced the end of his wife.  Then, after some consultation with the old woman, Sam rode to town on one of his horses, leading another.  He came back with but one horse and a large bundle; and soon the women were making for Mrs. Trotwine her last earthly robe, and the first new one she had worn for years.  The next day a wagon brought a coffin and a minister, and the whole camp silently and respectfully followed Mrs. Trotwine to a home with which she could find no fault.

For three days all the male Pikes in the camp sat on the log in front of Sam’s door, and expressed their sympathy as did the three friends of Job—­that is, they held their peace.  But on the fourth their tongues were unloosed.  As a conversationalist the Pike is not a success, but Sam’s actions were so unusual and utterly unheard of, that it seemed as if even the stones must have wondered and communed among themselves.

“I never heard of such a thing,” said Brown Buck; “he’s gone an’ bought new clothes for each of the four young ’uns.”

“Yes,” said the patriarch of the camp, “an’ this mornin’, when I went down to the bank to soak my head, ’cos last night’s liquor didn’t agree with it, I seed Sam with all his young ‘uns as they wuz a washin’ their face an’ hands with soap.  They’ll ketch their death an’ be on the hill with their mother ’fore long, if he don’t look out; somebody ort to reason with him.”

“‘Twon’t do no good,” sighed Limping Jim.  “He’s lost his head, an’ reason just goes into one ear and out at t’other.  When he was scrapin’ aroun’ the front door t’other day, an’ I asked him what he wuz a-layin’ the ground all bare an’ desolate for, he said he was done keepin’ pig-pen.  Now everybody but him knows he never had a pig.  His head’s gone, just mark my words.”

On the morning of the fourth day Sam’s friends had just secured a full attendance on the log, and were at work upon their first pipes, when they were startled by seeing Sam harness his horse in the wagon and put all his children into it.

“Whar yer bound fur, Sam?” asked the patriarch.

Sam blushed as near as a Pike could, but answered with only a little hesitation: 

“Goin’ to take ’em to school to Maxfield—­goin’ to do it ev’ry day.”

The incumbent of the log were too nearly paralyzed to remonstrate, but after a few moments of silence the patriarch remarked, in tones of feeling, yet decision: 

“He’s hed a tough time of it, but he’s no bizness to ruin the settlement.  I’m an old man myself, an’ I need peace of mind, so I’m goin’ to pack up my traps and mosey.  When the folks at Maxfield knows what he’s doin’, they’ll make him a constable or a justice, an’ I’m too much of a man to live nigh any sich.”