it."

"Was that what put you in such a frenzy and made a fool of you?"

"Yes--no--no. It--it--wasn't that."

"You know you were a fool, don't you?"

"If telling me of it makes me know it--yes."

"Eat a little more. Here are beans and venison. You must eat to make
up the loss. Why, man, I found you in a pool of blood."

"Oh, I'll make it up. I'll make it up all too soon. I'm not to die so
easily."

"You'll not make it up as soon as you think, young man. You may lose a
quart of blood in a minute, but it takes weeks to get it again," and
Harry King found his friend was right.

That was the last snow of winter, as Larry had predicted, and when
Harry crawled out in the sun, the earth smelled of spring, and the
waterfall thundered in its downward plunge, augmented by the melting
snows of the still higher mountains. The noise of it was ever in their
ears, and the sound seemed fraught with a buoyant impulse and
inspiration--the whirl and rush of a tremendous force, giving a sense
of superhuman power. Even after he was really able to walk about and
help himself, Harry would not allow himself to see Amalia. He forbade
Larry to tell them how much he was improved, and still taxed his
friend to bring him up his meals, and sit by him, telling him the
tales of his life.

"I'll wait on you here no longer, boy," said Larry, at last. "What in
life are you hiding in this shed for? The women think it strange of
you--the mother does, anyway,--you may never quite know what her
daughter thinks unless she wishes you to know, but I'm sure she thinks
strange of you. She ought to."

"I know. I'm perfectly well and strong. The trail's open now, and I'll
go--I'll go back--where I came from. You've been good to me--I can't
say any more--now."

"Smoke a pipe, lad, smoke a pipe."

Harry took a pipe and laughed. "You're better than any pipe, but I'll
smoke it, and I'll go down, yes, I must, and bid them good-by."

"And will you have nothing to tell me, lad, before you go?"

"Not yet. After I've made my peace with the world--with the law--I'll
have a letter sent you--telling all I know. You'll forgive me. You
see, when I look back--I wish to see your face--as I see it
now--not--not changed towards me."

"My face is not one to change toward you--you who have repented
whatever you've done that's wrong."

That evening Harry King went down to the cabin and sat with his three
friends and ate with them, and told them he was to depart on