yet be a chance. It seemed very far away now.
And Martha and the little chaps--Oh, well!

Some hours may have passed as he lay there, and sleep came; for I fancy
it was a dream that brought the final sharp thought into his brain. He
dragged himself up on one elbow, the old queer smile on his lips.

"I will try," he said.

It took him some time to make his way out into the main road, but he did
it at last, straightening his wet hair under the old cap.

"It's so like a dog to die that way! I'll try, just once, how the world
looks when I face it."

He sat down outside of a blacksmith's forge, the only building in sight,
on the pump-trough, and looked wearily about. His head fell now and then
on his breast from weakness.

"It won't be a very long trial. I'll not beg for food, and I'm not equal
to much work just now,"--with the same grim half-smile.

No one was in sight but the blacksmith and some crony, looking over a
newspaper. Inside. They nodded, when they saw him, and said,--

"Hillo!"

"Hillo!" said Yarrow.

Then they went on with their paper. That was the only sound for a long
time. Some farmers passed after a while, giving him good-morning, in
country-fashion. A trifle, but it was warm, heartsome: he had put the
world on trial, you know, and he was not very far from death. Men more
soured than Yarrow have been surprised to find it was God's world, with
God's own heart, warm and kindly, speaking through every human heart in
it, if they touched them right. About noon, the blacksmith's children
brought him his dinner in a tin bucket, leaving it inside. When they
came out, one freckled baby-girl came up to Yarrow.

"Tie my shoe," she said, putting up one foot, peremptorily. "Are you
hungry?" looking at him curiously, after he had done it, at the same
time holding up a warm seed-cake she was eating to his mouth. He was
ashamed that the spicy smile tempted him to take it. He put it away, and
seated her on his foot.

"Let me ride you plough-boy fashion," he said, trotting her gently for a
minute.

Her father passed them.

"You must pardon me," said Yarrow, with a bow. "I used to ride my boy
so, and"--

"Eh? Yes. Sudy's a good girl. You've lost your little boy, now?" looking
in Yarrow's face.

"Yes, I've lost him."

The blacksmith stood silent a moment, then went in. Soon after a tall
man rode up on a gray horse; it had cast a shoe, and while the smith
went to work within, the rider sat down by Yarrow