round his neck, it was the costume of the
habitant complete.

Yet it was no disguise, for it was part of the life that Charles
Mallard, once Charley Steele, should lead henceforth.

He turned to the door and opened it. "Good-bye, Portugais," he said.

Jo was startled. "Where are you going, M'sieu'?"

"To the village."

"What to do, M'sieu'?"

"Who knows?"

"You will come back?" Jo asked anxiously.

"Before sundown, Jo. Good-bye!"

This was the first long walk he had taken since he had become himself
again. The sweet, cold air, with a bracing wind in his face, gave peace
to the nerves but now strained and fevered in the fight with appetite.
His mind cleared, and he drank in the sunny air and the pungent smell
of the balsams. His feet light with moccasins, he even ran a distance,
enjoying the glow from a fast-beating pulse.

As he came into the high-road, people passed him in carioles and
sleighs. Some eyed him curiously. What did he mean to do? What object
had he in coming to the village? What did he expect? As he entered the
village his pace slackened. He had no destination, no object. He was
simply aware that his new life was beginning.

He passed a little house on which was a sign, "Narcisse Dauphin,
Notary." It gave him a curious feeling. It was the old life before him.
"Charles Mallard, Notary?"--No, that was not for him. Everything that
reminded him of the past, that brought him in touch with it, must be set
aside. He moved on. Should he go to the Cure? No; one thing at a time,
and today he wanted his thoughts for himself. More people passed
him, and spoke of him to each other, though there was no coarse
curiosity--the habitant has manners.

Presently he passed a low shop with a divided door. The lower half was
closed, the upper open, and the winter sun was shining full into the
room, where a bright fire burned.

Charley looked up. Over the door was painted, in straggling letters:
"Louis Trudel, Tailor." He looked inside. There, on a low table, bent
over his work, with a needle in his hand, sat Louis Trudel the tailor.
Hearing footsteps, feeling a shadow, he looked up. Charley started at
the look of the shrunken, yellow face; for if ever death had set his
seal, it was on that haggard parchment. The tailor's yellow eyes ran
from Charley's face to his clothes.

"I knew they'd fit," he said, with a snarl. "Drove me hard, too!"

Charley had an inspiration. He opened the halfdoor, and entered.

"Do