cheapest way of gettin' rid of 'em."

"I'll buy the plot."

"Have you got that much money, lad?"

"Yes," lied Pierre calmly.

The bright eyes grew dimmer and then fluttered close. Pierre started
to his feet, thinking that the end had come. But the voice began
again, fainter, slowly:

"No light left inside of me, but dyin' this way is easy. There ain't
no wind will blow on me after I'm dead, but I'll be blanketed safe from
head to foot in cool, sweet-smellin' sod--the kind that has tangles of
the roots of grass. There ain't no snow will reach to me where I lie.
There ain't no sun will burn down to me. Dyin' like that is
jest--goin' to sleep."

After that he said nothing for a time, and the late afternoon darkened
slowly through the room.

As for Pierre, he did not move, and his mind went back. He did not see
the bearded wreck who lay dying before him, but a picture of Irene,
with the sun lighting her copper hair with places of burning gold, and
a handsome young giant beside her. They rode together on some upland
trail at sunset rime, sharply framed against the bright sky. Their
hands were together; their faces were raised; they laughed, from the
midst of their small heaven.

There was a whisper below him: "Irene!"

And Pierre looked down to blankly staring eyes. He groaned, and
dropped to his knees.

"I have come for you," said the whisper, "because the time has come,
Irene. We have to ride out together. We have a long ways to go. Are
you ready?"

"Yes," said Pierre.

"Thank God! It's a wonderful night. The stars are asking us out.
Quick! Into your saddle. Now the spurs. So! We are alone and free,
with the winds around us, and all that we have been forgotten behind
us. Irene, look up with me!"

The eyes opened wide and stared up; without a stir in the great, gaunt
body he was dead. Pierre drew the eyes reverently shut. There were no
tears in his eyes, but a feeling of hollowness about his heart, and a
great pain. He straightened and looked about him and found that the
room was quite dark.

So in the dimness Pierre fumbled, by force of habit, at his throat, and
found the cross which he wore by a silver chain about his throat. He
held it in a great grip and closed his eyes and prayed. When he opened
his eyes again it was almost deep night in the room, and Pierre had
passed from youth to manhood. Through the gloom nothing stood out
distinctly save the white face of the dead man,