to spill back the contents again, almost wildly, watching the thin
trickle; and greedily sniffing its sweetish invitation of odor. Once
the rim met his lips and the taste touched his tongue, but he violently
spat it out and wiped his lips on the sleeve of his shirt.

"Hits ther devil's holy water," he murmured to himself. "Thet's what
Brother Fulkerson says--an' I reckon he's right."

The evening star always reminded him of Blossom. He thought of it as
her star, and upon it, as upon her own face, he kept his eyes fixed for
encouragement as his spirit's resistance waned in the mounting tide of
exhaustion. But when even that beacon was gone behind the mountain-top
he felt the despair of one whose last ally has abandoned him to face
travail unsupported.

He fell back on his dreams; dreams of what Lincoln had faced and
conquered; of what he, too, might achieve. But now he could see them
only dispiritedly as hollow shapes; misty things without hope or
substance. That bucket now--a sip from it would rehabilitate them, give
them at least the semblance of attainability. There lay relief from
despair!

His mind flashed back to his father's rebuke and his answer: "Ye says I
lay drunk. Thet's true an' hit's a shameful thing fer a man ter
admit.... But hit's a thing I've got ter fight out fer myself."

A great indignation against his father's misunderstanding possessed
him. He must fight in his own way! Even Blossom had only asked him not
to drink "too much."

When it needed only an hour more for the coming of dawn, his face grew
darkly sullen.

"Hit's hell thet I've got ter spend my whole life a-brewin' ther stuff
ergin my will--takin' chances of ther jail-house fer hit--an' yit I
kain't have a drink when I'm wet ter ther bone," he growled.

Going as if drawn by a power stronger than his own volition, he moved
balkingly yet with inevitable progress once more to the bucket. He half
filled the cup--raised it--and this time gulped it down greedily and
recklessly to the bottom.

Immediately his chilled veins began to glow with an ardent
gratefulness. The stars seemed brighter and the little voices of the
night became sweeter. The iron-bound gates of imagination swung wide to
a pageantry of dreams, and as he crouched in the reeking underbrush, he
half forgot his discontent.

Repeatedly he dipped and drained the cup. He was still on duty, but now
he watched with a diminished vigilance. Gradually his senses became
more blun