The neighbors dropped their milk-cans and flocked to the stricken home. A bundle and a walking-stick had been reverently carried to an upper room and placed upon a desk. These relics of despair's weary journey had been picked up from the ground, beneath the old man's window. He had stood there at night, alone, when the household was asleep. And now, when all were awake, he lay asleep, beflowered, roses on his breast, a broken heart perfumed.

"He looks natural," said a man who had laughed at him.

"But he doesn't seem to be tickling any one now," Milford was bitter enough to reply.

The soft earth beneath the window, the window once of fair prospect, was many-tracked by the feet of indecisive agony, as if the old man had shambled there, debating with his despair. But that he had made up his mind early in the evening was now clear to Milford. Perhaps the sight of the window through which he had looked out upon the leafless tree, the hope that he had seen hanging from its branches—perhaps his nearness to the sleeping household had caused him for a brief time to waver, but not for long. Milford recalled his classification of the poets, "Wordsworth, the lake." And his cry out in the dark, "Wordsworth! Wordsworth!" His fishing-rod argued that he strove to hide the appearance of self-destruction, but in the iced water he forgot his last thin pretense of caution, shouting as the excited spectator believed, "Warmer than the world!"

The awful agony of the first clod, falling with hollow sound, the tearing rush of memory, the gasp of the heart, missing a beat! The widow fell senseless at the grave, and they took her away, the daughter sobbing over her. Yes, they all took him seriously now.

"It does seem that he could have done something," said Steve Hardy, waiting for Milford outside the graveyard.

"He did," Milford replied.

"I mean—you know what I mean. I don't see how a man can give up that way. Seems to me like I'd fight till the last."

"Yes, but that man was more of a hero than you could ever be. He saw that he could not keep up his insurance, and he decided that it was better to die."

"I understand that the widow'll get ten thousand."

"Yes, the community is very quick to understand that point."

"I was talkin' to a lawyer, and he said that they couldn't keep her out of the money. The courts have decided that the money in such cases has to be paid."

"He understood it, too, or he wouldn't have drowned himself."

"I guess so. Well, you never can tell what a man may do. You form your idea of him and find out afterwards that it was all wrong. But it would be a cold day when I'd kill myself for anybody. I hear you're goin' to have a sale at your house."

"Yes, I don't care to stay here any longer."

"Every man to his own taste, but you can't find a puttier country. I guess this community right here ships more milk that any section along the road. But they say that when a man once lives away out in the West he always has a likin' for it. Well, I'll be over there on the day of the sale."

Milford sold all of his belongings, with the exception of some tools, a cow, and a loft full of cattle-feed which he gave to the hired man. He was not quite ready to go, but would remain a few days and perhaps a week longer. He was waiting for a letter, and he searched the newspapers every day. Mrs. Stuvic demanded that he should spend the remaining time at her house. She was sorry to lose him. She had confessed that she was half afraid of him, and this feeling had endeared him to her.

"What makes you grab after the newspaper so?" she asked one morning, in the dining-room.

"I want to know the news."

"No, you don't; there's somethin' else. You've sold all your stuff and can't be interested in the markets."

"I am looking for Western news. I want to keep track of a certain man."

"Who was that letter from you got this mornin'?"

"From her."

"Where is she?"

"In the city."

"Has she quit her school?"

"She's given it up as a failure."

"Then you'll be goin' to town soon."

"To-morrow morning. I see by the paper that my man is there."

"Plague take your man and your woman too. Why can't you stay here and behave yourself? I do hate mightily to see you go. Why don't you say you hate to go?"

"Because I don't. I have worked in order to be able to go."

"What do you want to see the man for? You never have told me anythin' about yourself, and here you are, goin' away. What do you want with him?"

"Want to tell him I'm well, and ask him how's all."

"Oh, you'll do. Fainted at the grave," she said, after a moment's silence. "Yes, I know all about such faintin'. They can't fool me, Bill. It's been tried too often. Fainted at the thought of gettin' that ten thousand dollars, and I wish to the Lord I had half of it. I'd faint too; yes, you bet!"

Early the next morning he bade the old woman good-bye. She scolded him, with tears in her eyes, wheeled about, and left him standing at the gate. At the station the milkmen gathered about him to shake hands. They were sorry to lose him. In trade some of them had been nipped by him, but that only proved his worth as a citizen. He waved them a farewell, and Rollins became a memory.

Upon reaching the city, he went straightway to the Norwegian's cottage. There was a romping of children within, and it was some time before he made himself heard. But finally a woman came to the door. He asked for Gunhild, and was told that she had gone over to see Mrs. Goodwin, but would not long be absent. He stood for a moment with his hand on the door. "When she comes back," he said, "tell her that a Yankee from the West has called. She will understand. Tell her that he will be back soon."

Jim Mills, railway monarch of the West, sat in his room at a hotel. Strong, an engine of industry, he could do the work of three men. He had heard the hum of a multitude of enemies; he had climbed in slippery places, sliding back, falling, getting up, struggling onward to stand on the top of the mountain. Without a change of countenance he had swallowed the decree of many a defeat. In playful tones he had announced to his associate the news of many a victory. He was a reader of old books and of young men. His word could build or kill a city. Legislators traveled with his name in their pockets. Men who cursed him in private were proud to be seen with him in public. He could clap an enemy on the shoulder and laugh enmity out of him, but failing, would fight him to an end that was not sweet. A commercial viking, he was ever thrusting himself into unexplored territory, a great commander with his scouts snorting on iron across the plains. He was a generous host and a captivating companion, but it was said that with all his apparent heartiness, he never forgave an injury. This, however, was spoken by his enemies, men whose "real estate" had been slaughtered by him.

Mills was busy in his room at the hotel, for neither at home nor abroad had he an aimless moment. His dozing on a train involved millions. A card, bearing a name in pencil, was handed to him.

"I don't know him," he said, glancing at the name.

"He says he must see you on most important business."

"What sort of looking man is he? I can't recall his name."

"Nice enough looking—hard worker, I should think."

"Tell him to come in."

Milford stepped into the room, looked at Mills and then at the secretary who stood near. "I should like to see you alone," he said.

Mills glanced at the secretary. The man vanished.

"Well, sir," said Mills, "what can I do for you? Sit down."

Milford sat down, a table between them.

"I wish to tell you of something that happened about five years ago."

"Well, go ahead. But I'm busy."

"I saw by the newspapers that you had arrived in town—you'll have to let me get at it in my own way."

Mills glanced at him and moved impatiently. Milford cleared his throat. He leaned back and then leaned forward with his arms on the table. "Have just a little patience, please. For years I have worked toward this moment—have pictured it out a thousand times, but now that I'm up against it I hardly know how to begin. But let me say at the outset that I have come to repair a wrong done you."

Mills grunted. "Rather an odd mission," said he. "Men don't read the newspapers to learn my whereabouts to repay any wrong done me. But does the wrong concern me?"

"Yes, you and me. Now I'll get at it. I lived in Dakota. I was sometimes sober, but more often drunk. I gambled. I fought. At one time I was town marshal of Green Mound. Once I was station agent for you. An evil report reached the main office, and I was discharged. I was broke. I was mad. I was put out of a gambling house."

"But what have I got to do with all this?"

"Wait. I met a man, a twin-brother of the devil. He made a suggestion. I agreed to it. We heard that you and your pay-master were coming across in a stage. We stopped the stage, and robbed you of twelve hundred and fifty dollars. That was all you had in currency. We didn't want checks."

"Go ahead," said Mills, without changing countenance.

"I was called Hell-in-the-Mud. My partner was Sam Bradley. We got back to town, and were seen that night in a gambling house. But we didn't play—broke, presumably. We were not suspected. Sam died three months afterwards in Deadwood. We had run through with your money. The town buried him. I won't pretend to give you any flub-dub about reform, any of the guff of a mother's dying prayers, for that has been worked too often. But I got a newspaper from Connecticut with a prayer in it—the last words of an old woman. That's all right. We'll let that go. But I resolved to pay you—my part and Sam's too. So I drifted about looking for something to do, and at last I rented a farm not far from here, and went to work. My luck was good. I skinned every farmer in the neighborhood. All I wanted was enough money to clear my conscience. Something—it must have been the devil—gave me a strange insight into cattle trading. Anyway I prospered, and the other day sold out. And here's your money, with six per cent interest for five years."

He placed a roll of paper on the table. Mills looked at him and then at the card which he had taken up. "My name is Newton," said Milford—"William Milford Newton. There's your money."

Mills took up the money, and then looked at his visitor. "I remember the occasion," said he. "And you have worked all this time. Very commendable, I assure you. How much more have you?"

"Less than ten dollars. Doesn't that satisfy you?"

"Oh, yes, I'm satisfied, but did it occur to you that the law might have to be satisfied?"

"The law?" Milford gasped.

"Yes. You seem to have forgotten that part of it."

"The law!" said Milford.

"Yes, sir, the law."

"And that means the penitentiary," said Milford, looking hard at him.

"That's what it means. Will you go quietly with me, or shall I send for an officer?"

"I came here quietly, didn't I? Yes, I'll go with you. I'm prepared to take my medicine. When do you leave?"

"At twelve to-night."

"Will you let me go out on my word of honor? I'll be back by six o'clock."

"Yes, but on your word of honor."

"Thank you. I will be here by six. I didn't think—but it's all right. Yes, the law, of course. I'll be here by six."

A loud knock startled Gunhild, and she ran to the door and opened it in nervous haste. Her eyes leaped out, and then she shrank back. "Oh, what is the matter?" she cried.

"Nothing," Milford answered, trying to smile.

"But you look old," she said. "You have scared me."

She took hold of his hand to lead him into the sitting-room. "No, not in there," he said. "I will tell you out here. I must not go in. I am afraid that I might hear that Norwegian hymn—out here—let me tell you! There was a time when you might have gone with me, but not now—not where I am going."

"Don't, dearest; don't. What are you saying? I will go with you anywhere. Yes, I will go with you. I dream of nothing but going with you—through the fields, across the ditches."

"Will you go with me to the penitentiary?"

She put her arms about his neck. "Anywhere," she said. "To the gallows, where we may both die. Yes, I will go to the penitentiary. And I will wait by the wall, and then we will go to the potato field."

It was nearly six o'clock.

"Tell him to come in," said Jim Mills.

Milford and Gunhild stepped into the room. Mills got up with a bow. "Who is this?" he asked.

"My wife," said Milford.

"You didn't tell me you were married."

"I wasn't until a few moments ago. She knows all about it, and will go with me."

Mills clapped Milford on the shoulder. "My dear sir," said he, "all my life I have been looking for an honest man, and now I have found him. Penitentiary! Why, you are worth five thousand dollars a year to me." He turned to Gunhild with a smile, and handing her a roll of bank notes, said: "A marriage dower from a hard-working man. Keep it, in the name of honesty; and, my dear, you and your honorable husband shall eat your wedding-supper with me."

THE END.

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WOMAN AND THE SHADOW. By Arabella Kenealy. 12mo, cloth. $1.00.
WORLD'S RELIGIONS IN A NUTSHELL. By Rev. L. P. Mercer. Price, bound in
cloth, $1.00; paper, 25 cents.
YANKEE FROM THE WEST, A. A new novel by Opie Read. 12mo, cloth. $1.00.
YOUNG GREER OF KENTUCKY. By Eleanor Talbot Kinkead. 12mo, cloth. $1.25.

Transcriber's Note:

Punctuation has been standardised.

Variations in spelling, including dialect, have been retained as in the original publication. The following changes have been made:

Page 66 He hung to the implements, changed to clung
Page 95 told them that it made no diference, changed to difference
Page 232 she has not forgoten me, changed to forgotten