he broke out so violently that I
really feared for his reason. And it was mainly my fault for I read him
a passionate poem, the outcry of a maddened soul, and he swore that it
had been written for him, that it was his, and I caught his spirit and
fancied that he might have written it, for I believed then, as I believe
now, that great things do not come from a quiet heart, that quiet hearts
may criticise, but that they do not create, that genius is a condition,
an agony, a tortured John Bunyan.

I went to the spring to get a bucket of fresh water, and when I returned
Alf was nowhere to be found. I went out and shouted his name, but no
answer came back. I went out into the woods, walked up and down the
road, but could see nothing of him. The shadows fell short and the old
people and Guinea and Chyd returned from church, and the noon-tide meal
was spread, but Alf came not. But save with me there was no anxiety, as
he was wont to poke about alone they said. Evening, bed-time came. Chyd
went home, and I went up to my room. I heard the old man locking the
smoke-house door--heard his wife singing a hymn, heard Guinea's faint
foot-steps as she returned from the gate, whither she went to bid her
lover good-night, and her little feet fell not upon the path, but upon
my heart. I went to bed, leaving the lamp burning low, and was almost
asleep when I heard Alf on the stairs. He ran into the room with both
hands pressed against his head. I sprang up. He ran to me and dropped
upon his knees at the bed-side, dropped and clutched the covering and
buried his face in it. I put my arm about him, knelt beside him, heard
his smothered muttering, and put my face against his. "Bill!" he gasped
in a shivering whisper, "Bill, I have killed him!"

"Merciful God!" I cried, springing back. He reached round, as if to draw
me down beside him. "Hush, don't let them hear down stairs. Come here,
Bill."

I lifted him to his feet, turned him round so that I could see his face.
It was horror-stricken. "I have killed Dan Stuart."

He stood with both hands on my shoulders looking into my eyes.

"Wait a minute and I'll tell you. It wasn't altogether my fault. He
ought to be dead. He tried to kill me. I left here without any thought
of seeing him; didn't want to see him. I went away over yonder into the
woods. I heard you calling me. Later in the day I came out near the
wagon-maker's shop, and several fellows were sitting there, and I
stopped to answer