except by the roundabout way I had first followed, over the
hills from the west. So my weekly tramps ceased.

Late in the following February I heard, through Dan the brakeman, that the
old man was greatly broken and had not been out of the Hulk for weeks. I
started at once to see him. The ice was adrift and running with the tide,
and the passage across was made doubly difficult by the floating cakes
shelved one upon the other. When I reached the Hulk, the only sign of life
was the thin curl of smoke from the rusty pipe. Even the snow of the night
before lay unbroken on the bridge, showing that no foot had crossed it
that morning. I knocked, and Emily opened the door.

"Oh, it's the painter, grandpa! We thought it might be the doctor."

He was sitting in an armchair by the fire, wrapped in a blanket. Holding
out his hand, he motioned to a chair and said feebly:--

"How did you hear?"

"The brakeman told me."

"Yes, Dan knows. He comes over Sundays."

He was greatly changed,--his skin drawn and shrunken,--his grizzled beard,
once so great a contrast to his ruddy skin, only added to the pallor of
his face. He had had a slight "stroke," he thought. It had passed off, but
left him very weak.

I sat down and, to change the current of his thoughts, told him of the
river outside, and the shelving ice, of my life since I had seen him, and
whatever I thought would interest him. He made no reply, except in
monosyllables, his head buried in his hands. Soon the afternoon light
faded, and I rose to go. Then he roused himself, threw the blanket from
his shoulders and said in something of his old voice:--

"Don't leave me. Do you hear? Don't leave me!" this was with an
authoritative gesture. Then, his voice faltering and with almost a tender
tone, "Please help me through this. My strength is almost gone."

Later, when the night closed in, he called Emily to him, pushed her hair
back and, kissing her forehead, said:--

"Now go to bed, little Frowsy-head. The painter will stay with me."

I filled his pipe, threw some dry driftwood in the stove, and drew my
chair nearer. He tried to smoke for a moment, but laid his pipe down. For
some minutes he kept his eyes on the crackling wood; then, reaching his
hand out, laid it on my arm and said slowly:--

"If it were not for the child, I would be glad that the end was near."

"Has she no one to care for her?" I asked.

"Only her mother. When I am gone, she will come."

"Her mot