Chester had known you when Frank was at home with
his mother--I compared dates and was sure of that--and he called you
Ford Campbell. So then I saw what a horrible blunder I'd made, and I was
worried nearly to death! But I couldn't see what I could do about it,
and you didn't--"
"Say, what about this Frank Cameron, anyway?" Ford demanded, with true
male jealousy. "What did you want to marry him for? You couldn't have
known him, or--"
"Oh, you wouldn't understand--" Josephine gave a little, impatient turn
of the head, "unless you knew his mother. I did know Frank, a long time
ago, when I was twelve or thirteen, and when I saw you, I thought he'd
changed a lot. But it was his mother; she was the dearest thing,
but--queer. Sort of childish, you know. And she just worshiped Frank,
and used to watch for the postman--oh, it was too pitiful! Sometimes I'd
write a letter myself, and pretend it was from him, and read it to her;
her eyes were bad, so it was easy--"
"Where was this Frank?" Ford interrupted.
"Oh, I don't know! I never did know. Somewhere out West, we thought. I
used to make believe the letters came from Helena, or Butte, because
that was where she heard from him last.
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