he married--later he
killed Bailey. That was the whole story.

After that the old man had become a hermit from choice, helping his
son when he could--often at the risk of his own life. Finally this
became impossible and he was obliged for a time to let him save
himself.

During this enforced exile he had developed both the shyness and the
daring of an animal. With him it had become an instinct, when he moved
far, or in a dangerous locality, to travel by night--like the panther,
whose tracks though rarely seen by others, he often found in his
wanderings. When he was forced to take to the woods by day, he either
proceeded cautiously or slept. Both his hearing and his eyesight
having become acute, he saw and heard with the alertness of a fox,
and lived as free--a cruel freedom that became a mockery. He had no
clothes save the makeshifts he stood in. When it rained he remained
soaking wet, like the ground and the trees about him; he became one of
them, drying when they did; drenched, frozen or warmed at the will
of the weather. He no longer spoke; he became silent like the things
about him--when his own voice escaped him it startled him.

Yet even in his isolation he made friends: the cave that sheltered
him; the tree whose rotten core always burned for him under his flint
and steel; some pure, unfailing spring,--all these had for him a
certain dumb comradeship.

And now to be fed and warmed at the same time! To be eating no longer
alone, crouched in the dark like a hungry lynx, often in the drenching
rain, or hidden under the cold roof of some rock; but among human
beings whom he did not fear, men and women who spoke to him kindly
and gave him the best they had in their own misfortune. To meet again
Billy and Freme; to feel the friendly pressure of the old dog's head
upon his thin knees; to be within sight once more of a snug, dry
lean-to ready to rest his tired body. These were mercies he had never
thought to see again. Yet, thankful as he was for them, they were
secondary to his silent joy at seeing his father.

Occasionally the old man spoke to him in a low tone, as he piled the
freshly cut night wood beside the fire. In reply the outcast either
nodded or shook his head. When he had finished eating--and he ate
ravenously--he rose, went over to Thayor, and laying his hand timidly
on his arm, motioned him aside.

"I've got something to say to ye, Mr. Thayor," he whispered. "That's
what I come for; I'd like to tal