did not go out. Instead he went immediately to his
study, telling Julia sharply that she need not come in to sweep this
morning as he was going to be busy. It was one of the few times he had
spoken at all that morning, but not the first time he had spoken
irritably. Mrs. Leland's eyes, following him were troubled.

In his private room he sat long at his big oaken table, his brows drawn
thoughtfully, his eyes narrowed in deep speculation. The tenseness of
the man's still figure, the gleam of the darkening eyes, the obvious
moody abstraction told that some vital question had come to him for its
answer, that he was fighting it out sternly, that the issue was one of
those great issues of life which come soon or late and which must be
decided, yes or no, upon the battle ground of a man's soul.

Three months ago he had done a thing from which, at first, his finer
manhood had drawn back rebelliously. But--he had done it. There had
been a struggle then between the two nicely balanced qualities which go
to make up a human personality. The nice balance had been disturbed by
clever generalship rather than by open battle. Specious reasoning,
aided and abetted by the temptation of a rare opportunity, further
reinforced by an emotion which was more or less selfish even while it
masked itself as a public and private duty, had routed the sterner
sense of justice of which the man was, not without reason, proud. He
had in the end taken the step; being done it had since then been
dismissed to a shadowy corner of his mind by his own strength of
character; when he had thought of it had only grown stronger in his
belief that he had done rightly. And now a man whom he had never
expected to see again had come home; the question closed three months
ago was still an open question.

A grave, strong minded man, calm by nature, after sixty years of the
life of the mountains and forests, he thought to decide each action
upon its own merit or demerit and to see that quality clearly, keeping
his vision free of emotional mists. With such a man right and wrong
are two distinct entities, sharply separate, with no debateable land.
An action may not partake of each; it must stand forth black or white.
A motive may not be enshrouded in uncertainty; it must be right or it
must be wrong.

He questioned himself sternly to-day, frowningly concentrating his mind
upon each point as he struggled with it. The time had come now when
the decision he m