ler."

"Oh, yes, Patsy St. John, the little glass-blower," said Edwards, as
he sat up on a roll of bedding. "He's dead long ago. Died at our camp.
I did something for him that I've often wondered who would do the same
for me--I closed his eyes when he died. You know he came to us with
the mark on his brow. There was no escape; he had consumption. He
wanted to live, and struggled hard to avoid going. Until three days
before his death he was hopeful; always would tell us how much better
he was getting, and every one could see that he was gradually going.
We always gave him gentle horses to ride, and he would go with us on
trips that we were afraid would be his last. There wasn't a man on the
range who ever said 'No' to him. He was one of those little men you
can't help but like; small physically, but with a heart as big as an
ox's. He lived about three years on the range, was welcome wherever he
went, and never made an enemy or lost a friend. He couldn't; it wasn't
in him. I don't remember now how he came to the range, but think he
was advised by doctors to lead an outdoor life for a change.

"He was born in the South, and was a glass-blower by occupation. He
would have died sooner, but for his pluck and confidence that he would
get well. He changed his mind one morning, lost hope that he would
ever get well, and died in three days. It was in the spring. We were
going out one morning to put in a flood-gate on the river, which had
washed away in a freshet. He was ready to go along. He hadn't been
on a horse in two weeks. No one ever pretended to notice that he was
sick. He was sensitive if you offered any sympathy, so no one offered
to assist, except to saddle his horse. The old horse stood like a
kitten. Not a man pretended to notice, but we all saw him put his foot
in the stirrup three different times and attempt to lift himself into
the saddle. He simply lacked the strength. He asked one of the boys
to unsaddle the horse, saying he wouldn't go with us. Some of the boys
suggested that it was a long ride, and it was best he didn't go, that
we would hardly get back until after dark. But we had no idea that he
was so near his end. After we left, he went back to the shack and
told the cook he had changed his mind,--that he was going to die. That
night, when we came back, he was lying on his cot. We all tried to
jolly him, but each got the same answer from him, 'I'm going to die.'
The outfit to a man was broke up about it, b