tirement. Probably he had no
responsibilities in the world, with no one to say him nay, himself only
to consider in all the universe: a divine conception of adequate life.
Yet himself, Charley Steele, an idler, a waster, with no purpose in
life, with scarcely the necessity to earn his bread-never, at any rate,
until lately--was the slave of the civilisation to which he belonged.
Was civilisation worth the game?

His hand involuntarily went to his head. It changed the course of his
thoughts. He must go back to-day to put Billy's crime right, to replace
the trust-moneys Billy had taken by forging his brother-in-law's name.
Not a moment must be lost. No doubt he was within driving distance
of his office, and, bandaged head or no bandaged head, last night's
disgraceful doings notwithstanding, it was his duty to face the
wondering eyes--what did he care for wondering eyes? hadn't he been
making eyes wonder all his life?--face the wondering eyes in the little
city, and set a crooked business straight. Fool and scoundrel certainly
Billy was, but there was Kathleen!

His lips tightened; he had a strange anxious flutter of the heart. When
had his heart fluttered like this? When had he ever before considered
Kathleen's feelings as to his personal conduct so delicately? Well,
since yesterday he did feel it, and a sudden sense of pity sprang up
in him--vague, shamefaced pity, which belied the sudden egotistical
flourish with which he put his monocle to his eye and tried futilely to
smile in the old way.

He had lain with his eyes closed. They opened now, and he saw his host
spreading a newspaper as a kind of cloth on a small rough table, and
putting some food upon it-bread, meat, and a bowl of soup. It was
thoughtful of this man to make his soup overnight-he saw Jo lift it from
beside the fire where it had been kept hot. A good fellow-an excellent
fellow, this woodsman.

His head did not throb now, and he drew himself up slowly on his
elbow-then, after a moment, lifted himself to a sitting posture.

"What is your name, my friend?" he said.

"Jo Portugais, M'sieu'," Jo answered, and brought a candle and put it on
the table, then lifted the tin-plate from over the bowl of savoury soup.

Never before had Charley Steele sat down to such a breakfast. A roll and
a cup of coffee had been enough, and often too much, for him. Yet now
he could not wait to eat the soup with a spoon, but lifted the bowl and
took a long draught of it, a