ted. "'Remember
in the day o' judgment God'll mind the look o' yer master.'" He
took hold of those long, soft threads, and the horse lifted him
gently to his feet, and they walked, his arm about her neck, his
face in the ravelled silk of her mane. "I don't know whose horse
you are, even, or where you are taking me," he said. They went
down a long lane and came at length to a bar-way, and Trove crawled
through.

He saw near him a great white house--one he had never seen
before--and a beautiful lady in the doorway. He turned toward her,
and it seemed a long journey to the door, although he knew it was
only a few paces. He fell heavily on the steps, and the woman gave
a little cry of alarm. She came quickly and bent over him. His
clothes were torn, his face pale and haggard, his eyes closed.

"I am sick," he whispered faintly.

"Theron! Theron! come here! Sidney is sick," he heard her calling.

"Is it you, mother?" the boy whispered, feeling her face. "I
thought it was a great, white mansion here, and that you--that you
were an angel."

XXXI

A Man Greater than his Trouble

For a month the young man lay burning with fever, his brain boiled
in hot blood until things hideous and terrible were swarming out of
it, as if it were being baned of dragons. Two months had passed
before he was able to leave his bed. He remembered only the glow
of an Indian summer morning on wood and field, but when he rose
they were all white with snow. For weeks he had listened to the
howl of the fir trees and had seen the frost gathering on his
window, but knew not how swiftly the days had gone, so that when he
looked out of doors and saw the midwinter he was filled with
astonishment.

"I must go," said he.

"Not yet, my boy," said Mary Allen. "You, are not strong enough."

"Darrel has taken my trouble on him, and I must go."

"I have heard you say it often since you fell on the doorstep,"
said she, stroking his hand. "There is a letter from him;" and she
brought the letter and put it in his hands. Trove opened it
eagerly and read as follows:--

"DEAR SIDNEY: It is Sunday night and all day I have been walking in
the Blessed Isles. And one was the Blessed Isle of remembrance
where I met thee and we talked of all good things. If I knew it
were well with thee I should be quite happy, boy, quite happy. I
was a bit weary of travel and all the roads had grown long. I miss
the tick of the clocks, but my work is