shaped like a large, red
butterfly, high up on his forehead under his hair. "I am delighted to
have been of any assistance to her."

He would not wait for supper--the next train would be in and he must
not miss it.

"There are people looking for me," he said with his curious smile.
"They will be much disappointed if they do not find me."

He had gone, and the whistle of the Starmont freight had blown before
Grandma remembered that he had not given her his name and address.

"Dear, oh dear, how are we ever going to send that money to him?" she
exclaimed. "And he so nice and goodhearted!"

Grandma worried over this for a week in the intervals of looking after
Delia. One day William George came in with a large city daily in his
hands. He looked curiously at Grandma and then showed her the
front-page picture of a man, clean-shaven, with an oddly shaped scar
high up on his forehead.

"Did you ever see that man, Mother?" he asked.

"Of course I did," said Grandma excitedly. "Why, it's the man I met on
the train. Who is he? What is his name? Now, we'll know where to
send--"

"That is Mark Hartwell, who shot Amos Gray at Charlotteville three
weeks ago," said William George quietly.

Grandma looked at him blankly for a moment.

"It couldn't be," she gasped at last. "That man a murderer! I'll never
believe it!"

"It's true enough, Mother. The whole story is here. He had shaved his
beard and dyed his hair and came near getting clear out of the
country. They were on his trail the day he came down in the train with
you and lost it because of his getting off to bring you here. His
disguise was so perfect that there was little fear of his being
recognized so long as he hid that scar. But it was seen in Montreal
and he was run to earth there. He has made a full confession."

"I don't care," cried Grandma valiantly. "I'll never believe he was
all bad--a man who would do what he did for a poor old woman like me,
when he was flying for his life too. No, no, there was good in him
even if he did kill that man. And I'm sure he must feel terrible over
it."

In this view Grandma persisted. She never would say or listen to a
word against Mark Hartwell, and she had only pity for him whom
everyone else condemned. With her own trembling hands she wrote him a
letter to accompany the money Samuel sent before Hartwell was taken to
the penitentiary for life. She thanked him again for his kindness to
her and assured him that she knew