It referred to Mrs. Falchion.
For I was an arch-plotter--or had been.
I received a note in reply which said that she would do as I wished.
Meanwhile I was anxiously awaiting the arrival of some one.
That night a letter came to Roscoe. After reading it shrinkingly he
handed it to me. It said briefly:
I'm not sorry I did it, but I'm glad I hevn't killed you. I was
drunk and mad. If I hadn't hurt you, I'd never hev forgive myself.
I reckon now, there's no need to do any forgivin' either side.
We're square--though maybe you didn't kill her after all. Mrs.
Falchion says you didn't. But you hurt her. Well, I've hurt you.
And you will never hear no more of Phil's pal from Danger Mountain.
Immediately after sunset of this night, a storm swept suddenly down the
mountains, and prevented Ruth and her father from going to Viking. I left
them talking to Roscoe, he wearing such a look on his face as I like to
remember now, free from distress of mind--so much more painful than
distress of body. As I was leaving the room, I looked back and saw Ruth
sitting on a stool beside Roscoe's chair, holding the unmaimed hand in
hers; the father's face shining with pleasure and pride.
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