eaning to which she could not
quite attain. Always a door opened, only to disclose another closed
door beyond it.

Here surely she stood as near to naked truth as it was possible to
get. Here were none of the forms of words, none of the explanations,
none of the ready-made answers of the catechism. Here were just two
men. One was a bad man, a man of evil life. He was dying. In a few
moments his soul must go--somewhere. The other was a good man. To-day
he had risked his life to save the lives of this man and others--for
Ruth was quick to suspect that Gadbeau had been caught in the fire
because other men were chasing him.

Now these two men had a question to settle between them. In a very few
minutes these two men must settle whether this bad man's soul was
presently going to Hell or to Heaven for all eternity. You see, she
was a very direct young person. She took her religion at its word,
straight in the eyes, literally.

So far she had not needed to take any precautions against hearing
anything that was said. The dull roar of the fire all about them
effectually silenced every other sound. Then, without warning, high
above the noise of the fire, came the shrill, breaking voice of
Gadbeau, screaming:

"On my knee I dropped and shot him, shot Rogers as he stopped!"

Involuntarily she turned and started towards the men. Gadbeau had
fallen back in the Bishop's arms and the Bishop was leaning over,
apparently talking to him. She knew that she must not go near until
the Bishop gave her leave. She turned back and putting her hands up to
her ears buried her face in Brom Bones' mane.

But she could not put away the words that she had heard. Never, so
long as she lived, was she able to forget them. Like the flash of the
shot itself, they leaped to her brain and seared themselves there.
Years afterwards she could shut her eyes and fairly see those words
burning in her mind.

When it was ended, the Bishop called to her and she went over timidly.
She heard the Bishop say:

"He is gone. Will you say a prayer, Ruth?"

Then the Bishop began to read slowly, in the light of the flames, the
Prayers for the Departed. Ruth kneeling drew forth her beads and
among the Mysteries she wept gently--why, she knew not.

When the Bishop had finished, he knelt a while in silence, looking
into the face of the dead. Then he arose and folded the long arms on
the tattered breast and straightened the body.

Ruth rose and watched him in a tro