cted from the wind and cold, to look forward to a comfortable
bed in place of one blanket and such browse as could be scraped into a
heap as a dog scrapes leaves and rubbish to lie on. Though he could
sleep anywhere, by virtue of youth and a hard body, he appreciated
comfort.

Earlier in the evening Jean, Chetwood and Turkey had borne them company.
But the two former had gone, followed by caustic comment from the
latter. And soon after that young gentleman had announced that Angus and
Faith were a darn sight worse, and that he was going to bed.

Left alone, Faith spoke the thing which was in her mind.

"I am glad," she said, "that it was not you who killed Blake."

"I intended to kill him," he replied, "and I would if it had been my
luck to come up with him. But I think I am glad, now, that I didn't,
though he deserved it. Anyway Paul Sam had the better right."

"The poor old Indian!" Faith said softly.

"Oh, I don't know. If he could talk about it he would say that he
couldn't die better. And then he was a very old man."

"But life may be sweet to the old."

"Yes. But when a man is alone, when all of his blood and the friends of
his youth and manhood are gone, there can't be much to live for. I would
wish to die before that time comes to me."

"Don't talk of dying." She shivered a little. But the chord of
melancholy in his being had been struck and vibrated.

"Why not? Talking will not bring death nearer, nor stave it off.
'_Crioch onarach!_' You have no Gaelic, but it means a good finish--an
honorable end to life. And that is the main thing. What does it matter
when you die, if you die well? I would not live my last years like a
toothless, stiff, old dog, dragging his legs around the house with the
sun. I would rather go out with the taste of life sweet in my mouth."

"We have many years before us, you and I," she said. "I think they will
be happy years, boy."

"They will be largely what we make them. I remember my father's words
when it was near the end with him; and _he_ was a hard man. The things
worth least in life, he said, were hate and revenge; and the things
worth most in life and more in death were love, and work well done, and
a heart clean of bitterness. I did not think so then. But now I am
beginning to think he was right."

"Yes, he was right," she said.

Fell a long silence. At last Faith took the banjo on her knee, and
smiling at her husband began to pick the strings gently. She played a