old man through, and he helped
me too, that night, thank God!' And Graeme's voice, hard till now, broke
in a sob.

He had forgotten us, and was back beside his passing friend, and all his
self-control could not keep back the flowing tears.

'It was his life for mine,' he said huskily.

The brother and sister were quietly weeping, but spoke no word, though I
knew Graeme was waiting for them.

I took up the word, and told of what I had known of Nelson, and his
influence upon the men of Black Rock. They listened eagerly enough, but
still without speaking. There seemed nothing to say, till I suggested
to Graeme that he must get some rest. Then the girl turned to him, and,
impulsively putting out her hand, said--

'Oh, it is all so sad; but how can we ever thank you?'

'Thank me!' gasped Graeme. 'Can you forgive me? I brought him to his
death.'

'No, no! You must not say so,' she answered hurriedly. 'You would have
done the same for him.'

'God knows I would,' said Graeme earnestly; 'and God bless you for your
words!' And I was thankful to see the tears start in his dry, burning
eyes.

We carried him to the old home in the country, that he might lie by the
side of the wife he had loved and wronged. A few friends met us at the
wayside station, and followed in sad procession along the country road,
that wound past farms and through woods, and at last up to the ascent
where the quaint, old wooden church, black with the rains and snows of
many years, stood among its silent graves. The little graveyard sloped
gently towards the setting sun, and from it one could see, far on every
side, the fields of grain and meadowland that wandered off over softly
undulating hills to meet the maple woods at the horizon, dark, green,
and cool. Here and there white farmhouses, with great barns standing
near, looked out from clustering orchards.

Up the grass-grown walk, and through the crowding mounds, over which
waves, uncut, the long, tangling grass, we bear our friend, and let
him gently down into the kindly bosom of mother earth, dark, moist, and
warm. The sound of a distant cowbell mingles with the voice of the last
prayer; the clods drop heavily with heart-startling echo; the mound is
heaped and shaped by kindly friends, sharing with one another the
task; the long rough sods are laid over and patted into place; the old
minister takes farewell in a few words of gentle sympathy; the brother
and sister, with lingering looks at the