He sat holding it in his hand, and moments passed before he could open it.

So it had been true, then, the fear that he had tried all these weeks to crush?  He had been weighing, measuring, remembering, until his very soul was sick with the uncertainty.  His mind had been a confused web of memories, of this casual word and that look, of what she had possibly heard, had probably seen, had suspected—­known—­

Now he would know.  He tore open the envelope, and the dozen written lines were before his eyes.  The letter was dated, a most unusual thing for Alix to do, and “Saturday, one o’clock” was written under the date.  It was the day of her death.

He read: 

Peter dear, Don’t feel too badly if I find a stupid way out.  I’ve been thinking for several days about it.  You’ve done so much for me, and after you, of course there’s no one but Cherry.  She could be free now, he couldn’t prevent it.  When I saw your face a few minutes ago I knew we couldn’t fight it.  Remember, this is our secret.  And always remember that I want you to be happy because I love you so!

It was unsigned.

Peter sat staring at it for awhile without moving, without the stir of a changing expression on his face.  Then he folded it up, and put it in the pocket of his coat, and went out to the backyard, where Kow was feeding the chickens.  The wet, dark day was ending brilliantly in a wash of red sunset light that sent long shadows from the young fruit trees, and touched every twig with a dull glow.

“Kow,” Peter said, after an effort to speak that was unsuccessful.  The Chinese boy looked at him solicitously; for Peter’s face was ashen, and about his mouth were drawn lines.  “Kow,” he said, “I go now!”

“Go now other house?” Kow nodded, glancing down toward the valley.

But Peter jerked his head instead toward the bare ridge.

“No, I go now—­not come back!” he said, briefly.  “To-night—­maybe Bolinas—­to-morrow, Inverness.  I don’t know.  By and by the big mountains, Kow—­by and by I forget!”

Tears glittered in the Chinese boy’s eyes, but he smiled with a great air of cheer.

“I keep house!” he promised.

The dog came fawning and springing from the stables, and Peter whistled to him.

“Come on, Buck!  We’re going now!”

He opened the farmyard gate where her hand had so often rested, crossed the muddy corral, opened another gate, and struck off across the darkening world toward the ridge.  The last sunlight lingered on crest and treetop, tangled itself redly in the uppermost branches of a few tall redwoods, and was gone.  Twilight--a long twilight that had in it some hint of spring—­lay softly over the valley; the mountain loomed high in the clear shadow.

Gaining the top of the first ridge, he paused and looked back.  Lights were beginning to prick forth in the brown houses of the valley, buried in their trees.  The busy little mountain train, descending, puffed forth smoke and steam.  Far away, the silver ribbons of the canals wound through the marsh, and beyond the bay, the Oakland shore lay like a chain of gems in the pale twilight.