I guess I am the only living creature to whom he has opened his
heart in many a long year. A hundred times beside our campfire I have
listened to him, until at last his story seems almost to be a part of my
own. He may be a little mad, but it is a beautiful madness."
He paused.
"Yes," whispered Joanne. "Go on--John Aldous."
"It's--hard to tell," he continued. "I can't put the feeling of it in
words, the spirit of it, the wonder of it. I've tried to write it, and I
couldn't. Her name was Jane. He has never spoken of her by any other name
than that, and I've never asked for the rest of it. They were kids when
their two families started West over the big prairies in Conestoga wagons.
They grew up sweethearts. Both of her parents, and his mother, died before
they were married. Then, a little later, his father died, and they were
alone. I can imagine what their love must have been. I have seen it still
living in his eyes, and I have seen it in his strange hour-long dreams
after he has talked of her. They were always together. He has told me how
they roamed the mountains hand in hand in their hunts; how she was comrade
and chum when he went prospecting.
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