Nothing could kill hope in the
Senator's breast; he would hand back
the farm in another year, he said; but
the sister was firm, and without a word
still, the Senator went other ways and
schemed through the nights, and worked
and rode and walked and traded
through the days, until now, when the
light was beginning to glimmer, his
end was come.
This was the Senator's last trade, and
in sight, down in a Kentucky valley,
was home. Strangely enough, the Senator
did not care at all, and he had
just enough sanity left to wonder why,
and to be worried. It was the ``walking
typhoid'' that had caught up with
him, and he was listless, and he made
strange gestures and did foolish things
as he stumbled down the mountain.
He was going over a little knoll now,
and he could see the creek that ran
around his house, but he was not
touched. He would just as soon have
lain down right where he was, or have
turned around and gone back, except
that it was hot and he wanted to get
to the water. He remembered that it
was nigh Christmas; he saw the snow
about him and the cakes of ice in the
creek.
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