gain, with eyes that brightened and breath that came more quickly,
they lived their successes, and hand in hand, as children in the dark,
told of their failures, and the tale was long, for they were but men.

The end came quietly. A hemorrhage, a big spot of blood on the cover,
a firm hand pressure, and Morris's parting words,

"Save my notes."

That night De Young knew no sleep. "I must finish the work," he said,
in lame excuse. Well he knew there could be no rest for him that
night. He did his task thoroughly, making record of things that had
passed, with the precision of a physician who knows a patient but as
material.

A tramp, who, unknowing, had taken shelter in an outbuilding, waking
in the night, saw the light. Moved by curiosity, he crawled up softly
in the darkness, and peeped in at the window. In the half light he saw
on the bed a thin, white face motionless in the expression which even
he knew was death; and at the table, writing rapidly with manuscript
all about, a man whose eyes shone with the brilliancy of disease, and
with a face as pale as the face on the pillow. In the blank,
unreasoning terror of superstition, he fled until Nature rebelled and
would carry him no farther. Next day to all he saw, he told the tale
of supernatural things which lingers yet around a prairie ruin, in
whose dooryard are mounds built of man.

The mail carrier calling next day saw a man with spots of scarlet
heightening the contrast of a face pale as death, digging in the
dooryard. The man worked slowly, for he coughed often and must rest.
In kindness the carrier offered help, but was refused with words that
brought to the listener's eyes a moisture unknown since boyhood, and
the thought of which in days that followed, kept him silent concerning
what he had seen.

Summer, with the breath of warm life and the odor of growing things;
with days made dreamy and thoughtful by the purring of the soft wind
and the droning of insects; and nights when all was good; with stars
above and crickets singing below--summer had come and was passing.

De Young could no longer deceive himself. The personal faith that had
upheld him so long--when friends had failed--could fight the
inevitable no longer. With eyes wide open, he saw at last clearly,
and, seeing, realized the end. He cared not for death; he was too
strong for that; but it must needs be that, now, with the shadow of
defeat lying dark over the future, the problem of motive, the