his
travels on the Pacific slope, tedious to the narrator, but interesting
because of the lad's interest, and because of the picture which the rapt
listener made. His study-desk near by, strewn with papers and books, the
white bed and bookcase farther off, pictures and mottoes of his own
selection on the white walls, a little altar in the depths of the
dormer-window; and the lord of the little domain in the foreground,
hands on knees, lips parted, cheeks flushed, eyes fixed and dreamy,
seeing the rich colors and varied action as soon as words conveyed the
story to the ear; a perfect picture of the listening boy, to whom
experience like a wandering minstrel sings the glory of the future in
the happenings of the past.

Arthur invariably closed his story with a fit of sighing. That happy
past made his present fate heavy indeed. Horace Endicott rose strong in
him then and protested bitterly against Arthur Dillon as a usurper; but
sure there never was a gentler usurper, for he surrendered so willingly
and promptly that Endicott fled again into his voluntary obscurity.
Louis comforted those heavy moments with soft word and gentle touch,
pulling his beard lovingly, smoothing his hair, lighting for him a fresh
cigar, asking no questions, and, when the dark humor deepened,
exorcising the evil spirit with a sprinkling of holy water. Prayers were
said together--an overpowering moment for the man who rarely prayed to
see this faith and its devotion in the boy--and then to bed, where Louis
invariably woke to the incidents of the day and retailed them for an
hour to his amused ear; and with the last word fell into instant and
balmy sleep. Oh, this wonder of unconscious boyhood! Had this
sad-hearted man ever known that blissful state? He lay there listening
to the soft and regular breathing of the child, who knew so little of
life and evil. At last he fell asleep moaning. It was Louis who woke
with a sense of fright, felt that his bedfellow was gone, and heard his
voice at the other side of the room, an agonized voice that chilled him.

"To go back would be to kill her ... but I must go back ... and then the
trail of blood over all...."

Louis leaped out of bed, and lit the night-candle. Arthur stood beside
the altar in the dormer-window, motionless, with pallid face and open
eyes that saw nothing.

"Why should such a wretch live and I be suffering?--she suffers too ...
but not enough ... the child ... oh, that was the worst ... t