Engle
knew of a widow about fifty whose husband had been killed in the War of
1812. And I got her, a Mrs. Brown. Zoe was now free of the housework.
She had a companion when I was away on my work about the farm. And I
felt relieved. But my mind and heart were full of problems. There was
always Zoe! There was always Lamborn, skulking in the shadows of my
speculations. How would I unravel this tangle with him?
Then there was Dorothy. Some of the talk must reach her eventually. It
might come to her as a smudge upon me. Then I could not expect to
continue my attentions to her without explanations. How could I go into
explanations with Dorothy? But even if Dorothy only knew that Zoe was my
sister, what would she think of me? Could she have an interest in a man
with a family relationship of this sort? Could Dorothy, bred in
Tennessee, look with favor upon my attentions? Had Reverdy and Sarah
kept this relationship from Dorothy? Had some one else told her? But if
she had not found these circumstances a reason for turning from me could
she tolerate the rest of my difficulties?
And one night I came home to find Zoe in bed. She was in great pain and
very weak. She was scarcely able to talk. She took my hand and pressed
it, only saying: "I have done something for you. If I die, it will be
best anyway.
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