"Stephen, this will hurt me. I"--

"I thought it was well done,"--his hand going uncertainly to his mouth.

"Well, well! you have chosen,"--after a pause.

"Good bye."

"Good bye, boy."

They held each other's hands for a minute; then Soule turned off, and
strode down the hill. He loosened his cravat as he went, and took a long
breath of relief.

"It was a vile job! But"--his face much troubled. But his wife heard the
story without a word, nor ever alluded to it afterwards. She was human,
like the rest of us.

A moment after he was gone, a curious change took place in the convict,
a reaction,--the excitement being gone. The pain and exposure and hunger
had room to tell now on body and soul. He stretched himself out on a
drift of snow, drunken with sleep, yet every nerve quivering and
conscious, trying to catch another echo of Soule's step. He was his
brother, he was all he had; it was terrible to be thus alone in the
world: going back to the time when they worked in the shop together. He
raised his head even, and called him,--"Jack!"--once or twice, as he
used to then. It was too late. Such a generous, bull-headed fellow he
was then, taking his own way, and being led at last. He was gone now,
and forever. He was all he had.

The day was out broadly now,--a thorough winter's day, cold and clear,
the frosty air sending a glow through your blood. It sent none into
Yarrow's thinned veins: he was too far gone with all these many years.
The place, as I said, was a lonely one, niched between hills, yet near
enough main roads for him to hear sounds from them: people calling to
each other, about Christmas often; carriages rolling by; great Conestoga
wagons, with their dozens of tinkling bells, and the driver singing;
dogs and children chasing each other through the snow. The big world
was awake and busy and glad, but it passed him by.

"For this man that might have been it has as much use as for a bit of
cold victuals thrown into the street. And the worst is," with a bitter
smile, "I know it, to my heart's core."

The morning passed by, as he lay there, growing colder, his brain
duller.

"I did not think this coat was so thin," he would mutter, as he tried to
pull it over him.

If he got up, where should he go? What use, eh? It was warmer in the
snow than walking about. Conscious at last only of a metallic taste in
his mouth, a weakness creeping closer to his heart every moment, and a
dull wonder if there could