mfortable cot Sandy had provided, smilingly
gazing through the broad window Sandy's inspired saw and hammer had
designed, he believed himself to be a young and strong man helping
another up The Way with guiding hand and cheerful courage. Sitting by
the bed, Sandy took the cold, shrivelled fingers in his warm young
ones, and the comforting touch focussed the wavering mind.

"Eh, there, son, it's a right smart climb, but the end's just yonder!
See that-er-light?"

"Yes, old friend, I see the light."

Sandy bent low and whispered gently.

"That-er-light, son, is in Parson Starr's window. Starr, Starr! He
war a mighty clear star an' his light ain't going out, I reckon. Hold
fast, son! A few more steps and the totin' will be over. It's been
right heavy goin'--but----"

The poor old body struggled to rise and Sandy, putting an arm under the
shoulders, lifted Andrew to a sitting position.

"Do you see the--light, old friend?"

"I--see--the star!"

"Yes. The star and the light, Andy?"

"Yes--that's--home!"

Facing the west with wide welcoming eyes, Andrew slipped from life so
gently and quietly that for some minutes Sandy held him without knowing
that the light had gone out and the weary soul had reached home by The
Appointed Way. When the knowledge came to him, his eyes dimmed and
reverently he lay the stiffening form back upon the pillow; crossed the
thin, worn hands upon the peaceful breast, and turned to his next duty
with a murmured farewell to ears that no longer could be comforted by
his kind words.

Sandy went home and ate his evening meal with his father. He did not
mention Andrew's death. Martin was so genuinely happy at having his
son to himself and Lansing Treadwell out of the house, that Sandy
disliked to shadow the joy.

"Suppose we read a bit," he suggested when the two were seated in the
study. Martin accepted joyously. "What shall it be, Dad?"

"Well, son, it do seem triflin' to set your mind to anything but Holy
Writ when you're idle, but to-day I found an ole paper up to the works
with a mighty stirrin' picture on it; a real techersome picture of a
man danglin' from a high cliff by his two hands, and nothin' 'twixt him
an' certain death, I reckon, but the writingman's understandin' of the
scene. Yo' know, Sandy, I ain't had my specs fitted yet an' so I
couldn't fin' out about the picture an' it's been right upsettin' to me
all day."

Sandy took the crumpled paper Martin produce