day he played with Shot and sang about his work.

* * * * *

The dusky twilight had come, when Job heard the stern voice of Andrew
Malden outside, as, with an oath, he threw the reins to Hans. The boy
rose to meet him as he heard his step on the porch. The door opened,
and Job saw a white face and flashing eyes, the very incarnation of
wrath.

"You pious fraud! What made you tell those men the mine was salted!"
hissed the old man.

"Uncle, I am sorry, but I couldn't help it. I knew it--I had to tell
the truth," stammered Job.

"Couldn't help it, you sneak! You owe all you are to me. I guess I am
more to you than all your religion!"

"Uncle, I am sorry to hurt you, but I could do no less and please God.
And God is first in my life."

"First, is he? Then go to him, and let him feed you and clothe you,
you ungrateful wretch!" And with the words the angry man struck Job
such a blow that he went reeling over, a dead-weight, on the floor.

It was midnight when Tony, passing the door, heard the old man moan.
Peering in at the window, he saw him on his knees beside Job, who,
with white face and closed eyes, lay on a lounge near the door. Tony
stole away to whisper to Hans:

"Guess the old man's made way with the kid! Let's lay low!"

What a night that was for Andrew Malden! Two minutes after he had
struck the blow, all the wrath which had gathered strength on that
long mountain ride was gone. The blow struck open the door of his
heart; he saw that the boy was right and he was wrong. That blanched
face, those closed eyes--how they pierced him through and through! He
loved that boy more than all the mines and gold and ranches in the
world. The depth of his iniquity came over him. He hated himself, he
hated the Cove Mine; but that stalwart lad lying there--how he loved
him! All the hidden love of thirty years went out to him. "Job! Job!"
he cried. "Look at me! Tell me you forgive me!"

He dashed water in the boy's face. He felt of his heart--he could
hardly feel it beat. Was he dead? Dead!--the only one he cared for?
Dead!--the poor motherless boy he had brought home one moonlight night
long ago, and promised that he would be both father and mother to him?
Dead!--aye, dead by his hand! And for what? For telling the truth; for
being honest and manly; for saving him from holding in his grasp the
ill-gotten gain that always curses a man.

The hot tears came, the first in years. Andrew Ma