«When will she be back?» I asked. «Well, this is Wednesday. She will be back on Saturday, in the evening.» I felt a sharp sense of regret. «I am sorry, because I will be gone by then,» I said. «Gone? No! Why should you go? Don’t go. She will be so sorry. She likes to have people come and stay with us.» Something made me change my mind as I looked at the picture for a second time. I decided to stay. The man told me his name was Henry. That night, Henry and I talked about many different things, but mainly about her. Thursday evening we had a visitor. He was a big, grey-haired miner named Tom. «I just came to ask when she is coming home,» he explained. «Is there any news?» «Oh yes,» Henry replied. «I got a letter.» He took a yellowed letter from his pocket and read it to us. It was full of loving messages. The next day, another old miner came to visit. He also asked to hear the letter. The message in it made him cry too. Saturday finally came. I was glad to see his two friends, Tom and Joe, coming down the road as the sun began to set. The old miners brought flowers and a bottle of whiskey. Henry’s friends kept giving him glasses of whiskey, which they made him drink. Henry emptied the last glass. His face grew whiter and whiter. «Boys, I am feeling sick. I want to lie down.» Henry was asleep almost before the words were out of his mouth. In a moment, his two friends had picked him up and carried him into the bedroom. They closed the door and came back. They seemed to be getting ready to leave. So I said, «Please don’t go, gentlemen. She will not know me. I am a stranger to her.» They looked at each other. «His wife has been dead for nineteen years,» Tom said. «Dead?» I whispered. «She went to see her parents about six months after she got married. On her way back, the Indians captured her. No one ever saw her again. Henry lost his mind. He thinks she is still alive. When June comes, he thinks she has gone on her trip. Then he begins to wait for her. On the Saturday night she is supposed to come home, we come here to be with him. We put a sleeping drug in his drink so he will sleep through the night. Then he is all right for another year.» Joe picked up his hat and his guitar. «We have done this every June for nineteen years,» he said. «The first year there were twenty-seven of us. Now just the two of us are left.» He opened the door of the pretty little house. And the two old men disappeared into the darkness of the Stanislau.