ayed, he could not make it good in time.

What did it matter? She was first. Jamie took his way up the familiar
street, through the muddy snow; it had been a day of foul weather, and
now through the murky low-lying clouds a lurid saffron glow foretold a
clearing in the west. It was spring, after all; and the light reminded
Jamie of the South. She was there, and alone.

He had tried to save his own good name, and it was all in vain. He
might at least do what he could for her.

He did not go home, but wandered on, walking. Unconsciously his steps
followed the southwest, toward the light (we always walk to the west
in the afternoon), and he found himself by the long beach of the Back
Bay, the railroad behind him. The tide was high, and the west wind
blew the waves in froth at his feet. The clearing morrow sent its
courier of cold wind; and the old clerk shivered, but did not know he
shivered of cold.

He sat upon an old spar to think. The train bound southward rattled
behind him; he was sitting on the very bank of the track, so close
that the engineer blew his whistle; but Jamie did not hear. So this
was the end. He might as well have saved her long before. He might
have stolen more. To-morrow he would surely go.

The night came on. Then Jamie thought of getting his ticket. He
remembered vaguely that the railroad behind him ran southward; and he
rose, and walked along the track to the depot. There he asked if they
sold tickets to New Orleans.

The clerk laughed. New Orleans was within the rebel lines. Besides,
they sold no tickets beyond New York or Washington. The clerk did not
seem sure the way to New Orleans was through Washington. A ticket to
the latter city was twenty dollars.

Jamie pulled out his wallet. He had only a few dollars in it; but
loose in his pocket he found that thousand-dollar bill. "I--I think I
will put off buying the ticket until to-morrow," he said.

For a new notion flashed upon him. He had not thought of this money
before. With what he could earn,--the bookkeeper had said the
investigation might be put off a year,--this bill might be enough to
cover the remaining deficit.

He hugged it in his hands. How could he have forgotten it? He turned
out into the night again to walk home; he felt very faint and cold,
and remembered he had had no supper. Well, old Mrs. Hughson would get
him something. She had taken the little house on Salem Street, which
had been Jamie's home for so many years. Jo