You must tell him that this is not the map you wish to see;
that he will kindly bring you its official predecessor. He will then
say, "Ach, so!" and bring out a map half the size of the first, dim,
old, tattered, and faded.
By looking carefully near its northwest corner you will presently come
upon the worn contours of Chiquito River, and, maybe, if your eyes are
good, discern the silent witness to this story.
The Commissioner of the Land Office was of the old style; his
antique courtesy was too formal for his day. He dressed in fine
black, and there was a suggestion of Roman drapery in his long
coat-skirts. His collars were "undetached" (blame haberdashery
for the word); his tie was a narrow, funereal strip, tied in the
same knot as were his shoe-strings. His gray hair was a trifle
too long behind, but he kept it smooth and orderly. His face was
clean-shaven, like the old statesmen's. Most people thought it a
stern face, but when its official expression was off, a few had
seen altogether a different countenance. Especially tender and
gentle it had appeared to those who were about him during the last
illness of his only child.
The Commissioner had been a widower for years, and his life, outside
his official duties, had been so devoted to little Georgia that people
spoke of it as a touching and admirable thing.
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