ointment of his life.

Many a night since he bid Harry good-by had he sat alone by that same
fire, his dogs his only companions, the boy's words ringing in his ears:
"Leaving Kate is easier than leaving you!" Had it been the other way and
he the exile, it would have been nearer the truth, he often thought, for
nothing in his whole life had left so great a void in his heart as the
loss of the boy he loved. Not that he was ever completely disheartened;
that was not his nature; there was always daylight ahead--the day when
Harry would come back and their old life begin again. With this in store
for him he had led his life as best he could, visiting his friends
in the country, entertaining in a simple, inexpensive way, hunting at
Wesley, where he and Peggy Coston would exchange confidences and funny
stories; dining out; fishing in the early spring; getting poorer and
poorer in pocket, and yet never complaining, his philosophy being that
it would be brighter in the morning, and it always was--to him.

And yet if the truth be told his own situation had not improved--in
fact, it had grown steadily worse. Only one payment of interest had been
made on the mortgage and the owner was already threatening foreclosure
proceedings. Pawson's intervention alone had staved off the fatal climax
by promising the holder to keep the loan alive by the collection of some
old debts--borrowed money and the like--due St. George for years and
which his good nature had allowed to run on indefinitely until some of
them were practically outlawed. Indeed it was only through resources
like this, in all of which Pawson helped, and with the collecting of
some small ground rents, that kept Todd and Jemima in their places and
the larder comfortably filled. As to the bank--there was still hope that
some small percentage would be paid the depositors, it being the
general opinion that the directors were personally liable because of
the irregularities which the smash had uncovered--but this would take
months, if not years, to work out.

His greatest comfort was in the wanderer's letters. These he would watch
for with the eagerness of a girl hungry for news of her distant lover.
For the first few months these came by every possible mail, most of them
directed to himself; others to his mother, Mrs. Rutter driving in from
Moorlands to compare notes with St. George. Then, as the boy made his
way further into the interior the intervals were greater--sometimes a
m