the quiet, peaceful face and carried him very
tenderly,--Peter McNabb and Andrew Johnstone and some of his other
lifelong friends,--into John Hamilton's house.

They laid him in the darkened sitting-room, and Mrs. Fraser, in her
never failing kindness of heart, went to tell his bereaved sister,
while Wee Andra drove off to Lake Oro to find Donald and Sandy.

All day the neighbours came in, silently and sorrowfully, to see the
man who had saved the village and to speak of the brave deed he had
done at such cost.

But none of all the crowd guessed at the meaning of the sacrifice,
except one man. He did not weep nor lament nor speak one word of
sorrow. But his shoulders were bent from their accustomed
straightness, and his eyes lacked their steady gleam. He sat by the
side of his friend all that day and through the next night, refusing to
eat or take rest, and motionless, except when he stooped to pat the dog
that lay at his feet and that raised his head occasionally with a
mournful whine. Andrew Johnstone made no complaint nor did he say
anything when his friends came to sympathise with him. But Mrs.
Fraser, who had visited the room in company with Duncan's stricken
sister, heard Splinterin' Andra whisper softly as they left the place,
"Ma hert is very sair for thee, Jonathan, ma brother!"

The roads were in such an impassable condition that by nine o'clock at
night Wee Andra had not returned, and Duncan Polite had been laid in
his coffin, ready for his long rest. One dim lamp burned near the head
of the bier, and at its foot sat old Andrew, his head bowed, his face
in his hands. Across the hall the sorrowing neighbours had gathered in
the dining-room, where some of Duncan Polite's friends were leading in
prayer for the bereaved relatives. Peter McNabb had asked the minister
to open the service, but had accepted his refusal in silent sympathy,
wondering somewhat at the young man's grief-stricken face. Mr.
Ansdell's gentle voice was raised in a petition that the brave deed
might be a lesson to all, and the house was very still, when the front
door opened softly and a man glided into the parlour. He crossed the
room silently and stood gazing down at the figure in the coffin. At
the sight of him, the dog lying by old Andrew's side arose and,
crossing to where he stood, crouched at his feet, whining pitifully as
though begging for help.

Aroused by the movement the old man raised his head.

"Donald!" he cri