their feet."

"Do you think," I answered, "that they will not be able to stand the
test? You gave them--shall I say it?--a crippled mind before; you give
them a crippled body now. Well, where do you think the odds lie? I
should fancy with you as you are."

There was a long silence in which neither of us moved. At last he turned
his face towards the window, and, not looking at me, said lingeringly:
"This is a pleasant place."

I knew that he would remain.

I had not seen Mrs. Falchion during Roscoe's illness; but every day
Justine came and inquired, or a messenger was sent. And when, this
fortunate day, Justine herself came, and I told her that the crisis was
past, she seemed infinitely relieved and happy. Then she said:

"Madame has been ill these three days also; but now I think she will be
better; and we shall go soon."

"Ask her," said I, "not to go yet for a few days. Press it as a favour
to me." Then, on second thought, I sat down and wrote Mrs. Falchion a
note, hinting that there were grave reasons why she should stay a
little longer: things connected with her own happiness. Truth is, I had
received a note that morning which had excited me. It referred to Mrs.
Falchion. For I was an arch-plotter--or had been.

I received a note in reply which said that she would do as I wished.
Meanwhile I was anxiously awaiting the arrival of some one.

That night a letter came to Roscoe. After reading it shrinkingly he
handed it to me. It said briefly:

I'm not sorry I did it, but I'm glad I hevn't killed you. I was
drunk and mad. If I hadn't hurt you, I'd never hev forgive myself.
I reckon now, there's no need to do any forgivin' either side.
We're square--though maybe you didn't kill her after all. Mrs.
Falchion says you didn't. But you hurt her. Well, I've hurt you.
And you will never hear no more of Phil's pal from Danger Mountain.

Immediately after sunset of this night, a storm swept suddenly down the
mountains, and prevented Ruth and her father from going to Viking. I
left them talking to Roscoe, he wearing such a look on his face as I
like to remember now, free from distress of mind--so much more painful
than distress of body. As I was leaving the room, I looked back and saw
Ruth sitting on a stool beside Roscoe's chair, holding the unmaimed hand
in hers; the father's face shining with pleasure and pride. Before I
went out, I turned again to look at them, and, as I did so, my eye fell
on the