e
I've seen him there."

The answer was conclusive. It was known that York had been visiting the
East during the old man's absence. The colloquy had diverted attention
from Plunkett, who, pale and breathless, was staring at his unexpected
deliverer. As he turned again toward his tormentors, there was something
in the expression of his eye that caused those that were nearest to him
to fall back, and sent a strange, indefinable thrill through the boldest
and most reckless. As he made a step forward, the physician, almost
unconsciously, raised his hand with a warning gesture; and old man
Plunkett, with his eyes fixed upon the red-hot stove, and an odd smile
playing about his mouth, began,--

"Yes--of course you did. Who says you didn't? It ain't no lie. I said I
was goin' home--and I've been home. Haven't I? My God! I have. Who says
I've been lyin'? Who says I'm dreamin'? Is it true--why don't you speak?
It is true, after all. You say you saw me there: why don't you speak
again? Say, say!--is it true? It's going now. O my God! it's going
again. It's going now. Save me!" And with a fierce cry he fell forward
in a fit upon the floor.

When the old man regained his senses, he found himself in York's cabin.
A flickering fire of pine-boughs lit up the rude rafters, and fell upon
a photograph tastefully framed with fir-cones, and hung above the brush
whereon he lay. It was the portrait of a young girl. It was the first
object to meet the old man's gaze; and it brought with it a flush of
such painful consciousness, that he started, and glanced quickly around.
But his eyes only encountered those of York,--clear, gray, critical, and
patient,--and they fell again.

"Tell me, old man," said York not unkindly, but with the same cold,
clear tone in his voice that his eye betrayed a moment ago,--"tell me,
is THAT a lie too?" and he pointed to the picture.

The old man closed his eyes, and did not reply. Two hours before, the
question would have stung him into some evasion or bravado. But the
revelation contained in the question, as well as the tone of York's
voice, was to him now, in his pitiable condition, a relief. It was
plain, even to his confused brain, that York had lied when he had
indorsed his story in the bar-room; it was clear to him now that he had
not been home, that he was not, as he had begun to fear, going mad.
It was such a relief, that, with characteristic weakness, his former
recklessness and extravagance returne