of the infinite weariness of death in his voice, "you
wouldn't mind giving me this, would you?" and he took up the picture of
Flip. The old man nodded repeatedly. "Thank you," said Lance. He went
to the door, paused a moment, and returned. "Good-by, old man," he
said, holding out his hand. Fairley took it with a childish smile.
"He's dead," said the old man softly, holding Lance's hand, but
pointing to the hearth. "Yes," said Lance, with the faintest of smiles
on the palest of faces. "You feel sorry for any one that's dead, don't
you?" Fairley nodded again. Lance looked at him with eyes as remote as
his own, shook his head, and turned away. When he reached the door he
laid his revolver carefully, and, indeed, somewhat ostentatiously, upon
a chair. But when he stepped from the threshold he stopped a moment in
the light of the open door to examine the lock of a small derringer
which he drew from his pocket. He then shut the door carefully, and
with the same slow, hesitating step, felt his way into the night.

He had but one idea in his mind, to find some lonely spot; some spot
where the footsteps of man would never penetrate, some spot that would
yield him rest, sleep, obliteration, forgetfulness, and, above all,
where _he_ would be forgotten. He had seen such places; surely there
were many,--where bones were picked up of dead men who had faded from
the earth and had left no other record. If he could only keep his
senses now he might find such a spot, but he must be careful, for her
little feet went everywhere, and she must never see him again alive or
dead. And in the midst of his thoughts, and the darkness, and the
storm, he heard a voice at his side, "Lance, how long you have been!"

* * * * *

Left to himself, the old man again fell into a vacant contemplation of
the dead body before him, until a stronger blast swept down like an
avalanche upon the cabin, burst through the ill-fastened door and
broken chimney, and, dashing the ashes and living embers over the
floor, filled the room with blinding smoke and flame. Fairley rose with
a feeble cry, and then, as if acted upon by some dominant memory,
groped under the bed until he found his buckskin bag and his precious
crystal, and fled precipitately from the room. Lifted by this second
shock from his apathy, he returned to the fixed idea of his life,--the
discovery and creation of the diamond,--and forgot all else. The feeble
grasp that hi