ld have withstood, but not--this.

The other followed his every movement, as a beggar watches for the
glance of sympathy. And as the moments passed, and the Padre remained
silent, his voice, keyed sharply, further urged him.

"Wal?"

But the other was thinking, thinking rapidly of all those things which
his conscience, and long years of weary hiding prompted. He was trying
to adapt his focus anew. His duty had seemed so plain to him. Then,
too, his inclination had been at work. His intention had not seemed a
great sacrifice to him. He was weary of it all--these years of
avoiding his fellows. These years during which his mind had been
thrown back upon the thought of whither all his youthful, headlong
follies and--cowardice had driven him. Strong man as he was, something
of his strength had been undermined by the weary draining of those
years. He no longer had that desire to escape, which, in youth, had
urged him. He was almost anxious to face his accusers. And with that
thought he knew that he was getting old. Yes, he was getting old--and
Buck--Buck was almost his son. He could not see the boy's young life
thrown away for him, a life so full of promise, so full of quiet
happiness. He knew that that would happen if he persisted. He knew
that every word of Buck's promise would be carried out to the letter.
That was his way. There was no alternative left now but for him to
give way. So he turned back and held out his hand.

"What you say--goes," he said huskily. "I--I hope what we're doing is
right."

Buck caught the strong hand in his, and the other winced under his
grip.

"Right?" he cried, his eyes shining with a great happiness. "Right?
You'll save that old woman the worst crime on earth. You're savin' the
law from a crime which it's no right to commit. You're handin' little
Joan a happiness you can't even guess at in keepin' your liberty--an'
me, wal, you're handin' me back my life. Say, I ain't goin' to thank
you, Padre. I don't guess I know how. That ain't our way." He laughed
happily. "Guess the score you got agin me is still mountin' right up.
I don't never seem to git it squared. Wal, we'll let it go. Maybe it's
almost a pity Bob Richards won't never have the chance of thanking you
for--savin' his life, too."

The delight in his manner, his shining joy were almost sufficient
recompense to the Padre. He had given way to this youngster as he
always gave way. It had been so from the first. Yes, it was always