E. WRATH.

His mother's lawyers! That meant that his mother had relented, and was
anxious to have him home again. His heart leapt at the thought--and
then he remembered that there were Peggy and the death of Strangeways
as obstacles to his return.

He undid the wrapping of the lawyer's letter and, as he read, the
blood went from his face. It was to tell him, in formal language, that
his mother was dead, and that, if he would fulfil certain conditions,
he was to become heir to the property which she had left. The estate
was valued at fifteen thousand pounds. The conditions were, that he
was to return to England within four months from the writing of this
letter, and take up his permanent residence there. If for any reason
he should be unwilling or unable to agree to these terms, the money
was to be divided among certain charities which his mother had named
in her will. That was all. So the chance for which he had waited had
come at last, and he was unable to take it--and his mother was dead!

He sat very still and motionless. The flies drummed against the
panes--they also were captives. Outside, across the river, the
whippoorwill continued to cry, demanding entrance into Beorn's body
because it was his soul. Peggy came to the door, tried to open it,
rattled the latch and announced that the meal was ready: he took no
notice of her, and presently she went away. For hours he sat like a
man of stone, making no pretence at thinking; of one fact only was he
aware, that with both hands, for the want of a little patience, he had
thrown away all his chances of return. He was lost--lost--lost.

As the hours dragged by the flies grew tired of trying to escape, and
the whippoorwill of calling; the whole world fell silent. He wished
that the darkness might come, so that he might hide himself; but in
June time, on the Last Chance River, it is never utterly night. When
the sun has sunk from the sky the sunset lingers, gradually working
round toward the dawn; through the summer months, as if to make amends
for the long dark winter days, it always leaves a little torch of
promise burning somewhere along the horizon. The perpetual brightness
of the world outside seemed to jeer him; it was as careless in its way
as the winter had been of the solitariness of his soul.

But at last the shadows lengthened in the store, and through the
dusty, cobwebbed window he could see that the sky had grown indigo and
grey. So his mother was dead, and