Afterward it seemed that he began to dream. Somber individuals were crushing his limbs between great rollers. Frisky little ghouls were sticking needles into him, and there were so many needles that it seemed that every inch of his skin was being tortured at the same instant.

The agony grew intense. He was trying to cry out, and a giant hand was over his mouth. And when the pain became so excruciating that it did not seem as if nature could longer endure it, he opened his eyes.

A sludge-dish hooked to a beam shed its yellow glimmer of light upon a strange interior.

There was no more strange figure in the place than Parker himself. He was stripped and seated in a half-hogshead filled with water, from which vapors were rising. His first wild thought was that the water was hot and was blistering him. He screamed in the agony of alarm and strove to rise.

But hands on his shoulders forced him down again. These hands were rubbing snow upon him. Then the young man realized that his sensations were produced by icy cold water. Parker felt that cloths bound snow and ice to his ears and face.

A glance showed him that he was in a rude log camp. The chinked walls were bare and solid. The interior was spacious, and a big fireplace promised warmth.

The most astonishing of all in the place were its visible tenants—a multitude of cats. Some were huddled on benches, their assorted colors and markings composing a strange medley. Others stalked about the cabin. Many sat before the embers in the fireplace. A half-score were grouped about the hogshead and its occupant, with their tails wound round their feet, and were solemnly observing the work of reanimating the stranger. Here and there among taciturn felines of larger growth little spike-tail kits were rolling, cuffing, frolicking and miauing. For a moment the scene seemed a part of his delirium.

Parker turned round to survey his benefactor. He found him to be an old man, shaggy of beard and hair. A pointed cap of fur covered his head.

He was dressed in rough garb—belted woolen jacket, trousers awkwardly patched, leggings rolled above the knee, and yellow moccasins. Although he was the ordinary type of the woods recluse, there was kindliness in his expression, as well as a benignant gleam in his eye that was not usual.

“How d'ye feel?” he asked, solicitously.

“As if I were being pounded with mallets and torn by pincers.”

“All over?”

“Yes, all over!” snapped Parker, rather ungraciously.

“That's good,” drawled the old man, rubbing more snow briskly on the aching flesh. “I guess I'm goin' to save ye, down to the last toe.”

“If aches will do it I'm saved!” groaned the young man.

“I wouldn't 'a' gi' a copper cent for ye when I got ye here to camp,” the old man proceeded, “but I've done the very best I could, mister, to fetch ye round. I hope ye ain't a-goin' to complain on me,” he added, wistfully.

“Complain on you?” Parker demanded. “Do you think I owe myself a grudge for coming back to life?”

“I should like to ask ye a fair question,” said the old man.

“I'll answer any questions.”

“Be ye a game-warden?”

“No, sir, I am not.”

The honest ring of that negative was unmistakable. The old man sighed with relief.

“When I found ye done up in that co't I thought ye was a game-warden, sure.”

“Look here,” Parker demanded, with asperity, “did you sit there and blaze away at me with any suspicion that I was a human being?”

“Land bless ye, no!” cried the old man, with a shocked sincerity there was no doubting. “I never harmed any one in all my life. But I was feelin' so good over savin' ye that I had to have my little joke. I was out this mornin' as us'al, after meat for my cats. I have to work hard to keep 'em in meat, mister. I can't stand round and see my kitties starve—no, s'r! Wal, I was out after meat, an' was takin' home a deer when I see what any man, even with better eyesight than mine, would have called a brown bear trodgin' round a tree an' sharp'nin' his claws. What he was up to out of his den in such weather I didn't know, but of course I fired, an' I kept firin'. An' when at last I fired an' he didn't bob out any more, I crept up an' took a look. I thought I'd faint when I see what I see—a man in a buffl'ler co't wrong side to an' his head all tied up an' his arms fastened behind him. Land, if it didn't give me a start! Wal, I left my deer right there an' h'isted ye on my sled, and struck across Little Moxie for my camp here on the double-quick, now I can tell ye. Ye was froze harder'n a doorknob, but I guess I'm goin' to have ye out all complete. Lemme see your ears.”

He carefully undid the cloths, to an accompaniment of groans from Parker.

“They're red's pinys. No need to worry one mite, mister. Come out o' your water whilst I rub ye down. Then to bed with a cup o' hot tea, and hooray for Doctor Joshua Ward!”

“I might have known you were Joshua Ward when I noticed all those cats,” said Parker. So this was Colonel Gideon's brother! He was too weak and ill to feel or display much surprise at the meeting.

“Most every one hereabouts has heard o' me,” the old man admitted, mildly. “Some men have fast hosses, some men have big liberies, some men like to spend their money on paintin's an' statues. But for me, I like cats, even if they do keep me running my legs off after meat. Hey, pussy?” and he stooped and stroked the head of a huge cat that arched its back and leaned against his leg.

“Mr. Joshua Ward,” said Parker, grimly, “you'd probably like to know how I happened to be prowling round through the forest dressed up so as to play bear?”

“I was meditatin' that ye'd tell me by n' by, if it wa'n't any secret,” the old man replied, humbly.

“Well, I think you have a right to know. You possess a personal interest in the matter, Mr. Ward. I was tied up and sent away to be killed or to be turned out to die by a man named Colonel Gideon Ward.”

To Parker's surprise the old man did not stop in his rubbing, but said, plaintively, “I was almost afeard it might be some o' Gid's works, or, to say the least his puttin' up. He don't improve any as he grows older.”

“You have pretty good reason to know how much chance there is for improvement in Gideon Ward,” suggested Parker, bitterly.

“Fam'ly matters, fam'ly matters, young man,” murmured Joshua, reprovingly. “But I ain't tryin' to excuse Brother Gideon, ye understand. I'm afeard that when the time of trial does come to him, he will find that the hand of the Lord is heavy in punishment. I've had a good part of a lifetime, young man, to think all these things over in this place up here. A man gets near to God in these woods. A man can put away the little thoughts. The warm sun thaws his hate; the big winds blow out the flame of anger; the great trees sing only one song, and high or low, it's 'Hush—hush-h-h—hush-h-h-h!'” The voice of the man softly imitated the soughing of the pines.

Parker stumbled to his bunk, his feet still uncertain, drank his tea, and slept.

The next morning, after the breakfast of bread and venison, the host said: “Young man, now that you have slept on your anger, I wish you'd tell me the story of your trouble with my brother Gideon. I know that he has been rough and hard with men, but many have been rough and hard with him. This is a country where all the men are rough and hard. But I fear that had it not been for the good God and these old hands of mine, my brother would be now little else than a murderer. Tell me the story.” His voice trembled with apology and apprehension.

Parker stated all the circumstances faithfully and impartially. At the conclusion Joshua's eyes glowed with fires that had not been seen in them for years. He struck his brown fist down on his rude table.

“Defying God's law and man's law to the disgrace of himself and all his name! And you had not been rough and hard to him,” he cried. “Bitter, bitter news you bring to me, Mr. Parker.”

There was a long pause, and at last Joshua Ward went on:

“Mr. Parker, that man is my own—my only brother, no matter how other people look at him. I have saved your life. Will you give me one chance to straighten this matter out?”

“You mean?”

“I mean that if Gideon Ward will pay for the damage he has done your property, ask your forgiveness as a man, and promise to keep away and let you alone, will you be charitable enough to let the matter rest?”

Parker pondered a while with set lips. It cost a struggle to forego vengeance on that wretch, but many issues were involved, principally the early completion of the railroad and his consequent favor with his employers.

“Mr. Ward,” he declared, at last, “I came down here to build a railroad, not to get entangled in the courts. For your sake and the sake of my project I will give your brother an opportunity to make atonement on the conditions you name. I owe my life to you, and I will discharge part of my obligation in the way you ask.”

“Are you afraid to accompany me back to Number 7 camp?”

“No, sir!” In his turn Parker struck the table. “I am ready to go back there alone and charge that man with his crime, and depend on the manhood of his crew to stand neutral while I take him and deliver him over to the law. And that I will do if you fail in your endeavors.”

The old man was silent. He made no attempt to soften the young man's indignation or resolution. Parker noted that his lips tightened as tho with solemn, inward resolve.

During the remainder of his convalescing stay in the camp the subject of Gideon Ward was not broached again.

The hermit beguiled the hours with simple narratives of the woods, his cats on knees and shoulders. He had no complaints for the past or the present and no misgivings as to the future, so it appeared from his talk.

Parker came to realize that under his peculiar and, to the casual observer, erratic mode of life there was a calm and sound philosophy that he had cultivated in his retirement. He had the strange notions of those who have lived much alone and in the wilderness. An unkind critic would have dismissed him brusquely with the belief that his troubles had unbalanced his mind. But Parker saw beneath all his eccentricity, and as the hermit wistfully discoursed of the peace that the woods had given him the young man conceived both respect and affection for this strange character. His knowledge of Joshua's life tragedy pre-disposed him to pity. He was grateful for the tender solicitude the old man had shown toward him. At the end of his stay he sincerely loved the brother of his enemy.