her, I cared little that what he had done had been in ignorance that I
loved her and that she was plighted to me. Losing her, I had no
thought of blame for the girl, for when she told me that in all the
world she cared for none so much as me, she meant it, for she believed
that he had passed out of her life.

By the fireplace, so close that I could put my hand upon the arm, was
the rocking-chair I had placed for her, and many a night had I sat
there watching it and smiling, and picturing it as it was to be when
she came. There would Mary be, sewing beneath the lamplight; there the
fire burning, with old Captain and young Colonel, snuggling along the
hearthstone; here I should be with my pipe and my book, unread, in my
lap, for we should have many things to talk of, Mary and I. We should
have Tim. As he played the great game, we should be watching his every
move. And when he won, how she and I would smile over it and say "I
told you so!" When he lost--Tim was never to lose, for Tim was
invincible! Tim was a man of brain and brawn. His arm was the
strongest in the valley; in all our country there was no face so fine
as his; in all the world few men so good and true.

Now he had come! The chair there was empty. So it would always be.
But here I should always be with my pipe and my crutches, and the dogs
snuggling by the fire.

Tim had come! The clock hands were crawling on and on. His minute had
better end. I hurled my pipe into the smouldering coals; I tossed a
crutch at little Colonel, and the dog ran howling from the room. Old
Captain sat up on his haunches, his slantwise eyes wide open with
wonder.

Aye, Captain, men are strange creatures. Their moods will change with
every clock-tick. One moment your master sits smoking and watching the
flames--the next he is tearing hatless from the house; and it is cold
outside and the wind in the chimney is tumbling down the soot. When
the wind sings like that in the chimney, it is sweeping full and sharp
down the village street, and across the flats by the graveyard, whither
he goes hobbling.

Little Colonel comes cautiously into the room, hugging the wall till he
is back at the fireside. With his head between his fore-paws and one
eye closed, he watches the tiny tongue of flame licking up the last
coal. There are worse lives than a dog's.

XVI

Tim came whistling down the road. He whistled full and clear, and
while he was still at the turn of th