morning on the snow-strewn prairie, the smell of smoke blown
towards him on the wind, the flames of the burning house, the horror of
the search among the ruins, his father's confession, and his own rage
and despair--deep in the tissues of life these images were stamped. The
anguish of them ran once more through his being.

How had he been deceived? And what was to be done? He sat down on a heap
of rubbish beside the straw, looking at his father. He had last seen him
as a man of fifty, vigorous, red-haired, coarsely handsome, though
already undermined by drink. The man lying on the straw was approaching
seventy, and might have been much older. His matted hair was nearly
white, face blotched and cavernous; and the relaxation of sleep
emphasised the mean cunning of the mouth. His clothing was torn and
filthy, the hands repulsive.

Anderson could only bear a few minutes of this spectacle. A natural
shame intervened. He bent over his father and called him.

"Robert Anderson!"

A sudden shock passed through the sleeper. He started up, and Anderson
saw his hand dart for something lying beside him, no doubt a revolver.

But Anderson grasped the arm.

"Don't be afraid; you're quite safe."

McEwen, still bewildered by sleep and drink, tried to shake off the
grasp, to see who it was standing over him. Anderson released him, and
moved so that the lamplight fell upon himself.

Slowly McEwen's faculties came together, began to work. The lamplight
showed him his son George--the fair-haired, broad-shouldered fellow he
had been tracking all these days--and he understood.

He straightened himself, with an attempt at dignity.

"So it's you, George? You might have given me notice."

"Where have you been all these years?" said Anderson, indistinctly. "And
why did you let me believe you dead?"

"Well, I had my reasons, George. But I don't mean to go into 'em. All
that's dead and gone. There was a pack of fellows then on my
shoulders--I was plumb tired of 'em. I had to get rid of--I did get rid
of 'em--and you, too. I knew you were inquiring after me, and I didn't
want inquiries. They didn't suit me. You may conclude what you like. I
tell you those times are dead and gone. But it seemed to me that Robert
Anderson was best put away for a bit. So I took measures according."

"You knew I was deceived."

"Yes, I knew," said the other composedly. "Couldn't be helped."

"And where have you been since?"

"In Nevada, George--Comsto