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No, no, I just can’t stay.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” I said. “After all, how long will it take you to eat? Besides, no one comes
to our house at mealtime and leaves without eating. You wouldn’t want my wife to lie down in the
mud in front of your car, would you?”

Still protesting, he allowed himself to be led off to the house. But it seemed to me as if there was
something more in his protests than just mere politeness.

He sat quietly enough while I said the blessing. But during the meal he seemed very fidgety. He
barely picked at his food, which was almost an insult to my wife, who is one of the best cooks in the
state and proud of it.

Once the meal was over, he got quickly to his feet, announcing that he must be on his way. But he
had reck oned without my wife.

“Now, look here,” she said, and she glanced at me for support. “It’s still pouring out there. Your
clothes are all wet, and you can’t help being cold. I’ll bet you’re tired too; you must have driven far
today. Stay with us tonight. Tomorrow you can start out warm and dry and all rested.”

I nodded slightly at her. It isn’t always advisable to take in strangers that way. Unfortunately, many
people cannot be trusted. But I liked this young man. I felt sure he would be all right.

He reluctantly agreed to stay the night. My wife sent him to bed and hung his clothes to dry by the
fire. Next morn ing she pressed them and gave him a nice breakfast. This meal he ate with relish. It

seemed he was more settled that morning, not so restless as he had been. He thanked us profusely
before he left.

But when he started away, an odd thing happened. He had been headed down the valley toward
the city the night before. But when he left, he headed back north, toward Roseville, the county seat.
We wondered a great deal about that, but decided he had just been confused and made a wrong turn.

Time went by, and we never heard from the young man. We had not expected to, really. The days
flowed into months, and the months into years. The Depression ended and drifted into war. In time,
the war ended, too. Linda grew up and established a home of her own. Things on the farm were quite
different from those early days of struggle. My wife and I lived comfortably and quietly, sur rounded
by lovely Greenbriar Valley.

Just the other day, I got a letter from Chicago. A personal letter, it was, on nice expensive
stationery. Now who in the world, I wondered, can be writing me from Chicago? I opened it and
read:

Dear Mr. McDonald:

I don’t suppose you remember the young man you helped, years ago, when his car broke down.
It has been a long time, and I imagine you’ve helped many others. But I doubt if you have helped
anyone else quite the way you helped me.