ean, Mister Townsend--I will
hereafter."

In the gloom his figure seemed suddenly bent forward more than usual,
and his voice had a note of terrible hurt. It was as if all the ties
of seven years of vicissitude had been arbitrarily cast off by his old
partner; that they had become master and man. His words conveyed an
indescribable sorrow, and loss.

"Bill!"

Dick's arm had relaxed, and he had stepped closer. Mathews did not
lift his head. A hand, pleading, fell on his shoulder, and rested
there.

"Bill, I didn't mean it! I'm--I'm--well, I'm upset. Something's
happened to me. I didn't seem to realize it till just now. I'm--well,
thank you, I'm making a fool of myself."

The faithful gray head lifted itself, and the gray eyes glowed warmly
as they peered in the dusk at the younger man's face.

"Whe-e-w!" he whistled. "It's as bad as that, is it, boy? Just forget
it, won't you? That is, forget I butted in."

Dick sat down, hating himself for such an unusual outburst. He felt
foolish, and extremely young again, as if his steadfast foundations of
self-reliance and repression had been proven nothing more than sand.

"I know how them things go," the slow voice, so soft as to be scarcely
audible, continued. "I was young once, and it was good to be young.
Not that I'm old now, because I'm not; but because when a feller is
younger, there are hot hollows in his heart that he don't want anybody
to know about. Only don't make me feel again that I ought to 'mister'
you. I don't believe I could do that. It's pretty late to begin."

Dick went to his bed with a critical admission of the truth, and from
any angle it appeared foolish. How had it all happened? He was not
prone to be easy of heart. He had known the light, fleeting loves of
boyhood, and could laugh at them; but they had been different to this.
And it had come on him at a time when everything was at stake, and
when his undivided thoughts and attention should have been centered on
the Croix d'Or. He reviewed his situation, and scarcely knew why he
had drifted into it, unless it had been through a desire to talk to
some one who knew, as he knew, all that old life from which he had
been, and would forever be, parted.

Not that he regretted its easy scramble, and its plethora of civilized
concomitants; for he loved the mountains, the streams, the open
forests, and the physical struggles of the wild places; but--and he
gave over reasoning, and knew that it was becaus