He turned his head and looked out of the window.  Simeon fidgeted.

“Sol,” he said, after a pause, “we’ll be past Olive’s by to-morrer night.”

No answer.  Sim repeated his remark.

“I know it,” was the short reply.

“Yes—­yes, I s’posed you did, but—­”

“Sim, don’t bother me now.  This is my last day here at the depot, and I’ve got things to do.”

“Your last day?  Why, what—?”

Captain Sol told briefly of his resignation and of the coming of the new depot master.

“But you givin’ up your job!” gasped Phinney.  “You!  Why, what for?”

“For instance, I guess.  I ain’t dependent on the wages, and I’m sick of the whole thing.”

“But what’ll you do?”

“Don’t know.”

“You—­you won’t leave town, will you?  Lawsy mercy, I hope not!”

“Don’t know.  Maybe I’ll know better by and by.  I’ve got to think things out.  Run along now, like a good feller.  Don’t say nothin’ about my quittin’.  All hands’ll know it to-morrow, and that’s soon enough.”

Simeon departed, his brain in a whirl.  Captain Solomon Berry no longer depot master!  The world must be coming to an end.

He remained at his work until supper time.  During the meal he ate and said so little that his wife wondered and asked questions.  To avoid answering them he hurried out.  When he returned, about ten o’clock, he was a changed man.  His eyes shone and he fairly danced with excitement.

“Emeline!” he shouted, as he burst into the sitting room.  “What do you think?  I’ve got the everlastin’est news to tell!”

“Good or bad?” asked the practical Mrs. Phinney.

“Good!  So good that—­There! let me tell you.  When I left here I went down to the store and hung around till the mail was sorted.  Pat Starkey was doin’ the sortin’, Beriah bein’ too upsot by Gertie’s gettin’ married to attend to anything.  Pat called me to the mail window and handed me a letter.

“‘It’s for Olive Edwards,’ he says.  ‘She’s been expectin’ one for a consider’ble spell, she told me, and maybe this is it.  P’r’aps you’d just as soon go round by her shop and leave it.’

“I took the letter and looked at it.  Up in one corner was the printed name of an Omaha firm.  I never said nothin’, but I sartinly hustled on my way up the hill.

“Olive was in her little settin’ room back of the shop.  She was pretty pale, and her eyes looked as if she hadn’t been doin’ much sleepin’ lately.  Likewise I noticed—­and it give me a queer feelin’ inside—­that her trunk was standin’, partly packed, in the corner.”

“The poor woman!” exclaimed Mrs. Phinney.

“Yes,” went on her husband.  “Well, I handed over the letter and started to go, but she told me to set down and rest, ’cause I was so out of breath.  To tell you the truth, I was crazy to find out what was in that envelope and, being as she’d give me the excuse, I set.