Moosemeadows/Chapter 17

by Theodore Goodridge Roberts

 

XVII

I HAVE written this in New York. Old Tom Deblore visits me here every winter and has a good time. The dogs and Sol and Amy Bear are well, Tom tells me. It is more than three years since I saw them. It is more than three years since I last saw Moosemeadows Park. I have not seen Rose Jeanbard since the night I carried her out, unconscious, through the fire and smoke of the burning house.

I am heir to the five thousand odd acres of Moosemeadows Park. I mean to go back and live on the old place some day—as soon, in fact, as I can close my eyes without imagining that I am still carrying that Jeanbard girl in my arms.

 

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