himself on
the barrel, but wherever he went and whatever he did old Moses dragged
his rheumatic legs after him. Two or three times the man patted the dog,
whispering reassuringly, "It's all right; don't you be worryin' none
about me, old fellow."

It was so dark in the shop that when Mrs. Barrows, carrying a lantern,
opened the door she could not at first find Ambrose. And afterward, when
he did come toward her and her light fell full upon his face, to Susan's
eternal credit let it be set down that she turned away her eyes.

"You come along home, Ambrose Thompson," she began sternly; "ain't I
been watchin' and waitin' for you to go by to your supper these past two
hours? It's mighty nigh time I was gittin' to bed and I ain't able to
sleep less'n my mind's easy."

Taking the man by the arm she led him toward home, talking in a tone
that few persons had ever heard from Susan. "Whatever's happened to you
to-day, Ambrose Thompson, don't you be scaired," she said once. "I tell
you it's the folks that things never happen to that ought to be scaired,
'cause you're livin' and they ain't." And then when Ambrose would have
left her at her gate, climbing up the few steps that led into her yard
she was able thus to place her hands on his shoulders.

"Ambrose," she said then, "there was a neighbour remarked to me the
other day, 'Ain't Ambrose Thompson changed a lot since his wife died?'
I told her, 'No, folks don't change none in what I calls their
fundamentals. They alter some; of course learnin' life don't mean to
make no exception of them with troubles, but leopards don't stripe, nor
zebras spot, nor human bein's get made over by experiences. You been
livin' lately thinkin' you was changed entirely inside by Sarah's death,
but you ain't changed--you've just been restin'. You've seen other folks
git over things that hit 'em as hard as Sarah's dyin' done you, but
course you thought _you_ were differ'nt." Leaning over, Susan gave
Ambrose a peck certainly intended as a kiss. "It's awful hard, boy, to
wake up sometimes, after one has been adreamin', but I reckon you're
wakin' up."

Susan was correct, Ambrose's dream had passed and by morning no mists of
it remained. Since the revelation of Miner's accusation in the shop he
had made no effort at self-deception, understanding now why since his
meeting with the Yankee school teacher his world had been again so
strangely vivid, so full of adventure, that even his trips back and
fort