I change my frock and put on a hat and a cloak and gloves and go
softly out the door and front gate on an errand.
I meet people on the street whom I know, whom I may speak to, whom I
may avoid: who may speak to me: who may avoid me: for I am at best
well hated in this Butte.
I come back again, softly unlock the door and come in. I come
upstairs, take off the out-door things, give a hasty side-glance in
my glass and go downstairs.
I read awhile. To-day I read an old-fashioned short story whose soft
wondrous prose cadences fed my senses--the Parable of the Prodigal
Son.--for this my son was dead and is alive--was lost and is found--.
But I am very restless and cannot read long.