things I had never
suspected before. Love can't come to me again. Oh, can't you think
of me? And yourself! Haven't you the desire to live life to its
greatest fulfilment? Can you give me up this way?"

Utterly selfish was her grief. But it was the innocent, instinctive
selfishness of the wild thing robbed of its due. Hers was a nature
as strong in its renunciation as in its seeking, but she had not
come to renunciation yet... She stroked his head, pushing back the
fur cap that he wore.

"Oh, my lover, my boy, your hair is streaked with gray! Oh, my poor
darling!"

He smiled wanly.

"That," he said faintly, "came after I had thought of you--and
given you up!"

Then, the greater woman awakened in her, the woman that has drawn
man's head upon her breast to comfort him since the world began;
the woman that has borne the sons and daughters of the earth amid
pain and fear and ingratitude; the woman that has ever stood aside,
alike in right and wrong, that the man may achieve his destiny.

So, then, stood Jean Fitzpatrick in sight of the trimmed tree-limb
that was soon to bear the body of him whom she knew to be hers.
Her weeping was stilled, and the eyes that looked into the eyes of
Donald McTavish bore alike the pain and the glory of woman's eternal
sacrifice. And to them both came the sense of peace that follows
a bitter struggle won. They talked a while of intimate, tender
things, and then she left him.

"Look at him, Timmins," whispered Buxton in an awed whisper. "Did
you ever see a face with such glory in it all your life? He's seen
something that you and I will never see, here or hereafter!"

Timmins looked... The light gradually died out before his eyes.

"What time is it, boys?" asked Donald.

"Four o'clock, Mac," answered Timmins, glancing with difficulty at
the watch that shook in his fingers.

"Let me have my pencil and note-book, will you? I want to write a
letter or two." The men hesitated, and the condemned man smiled.
"Oh, you needn't be afraid I'll try any funny business at this late
date. I give you my word, and that's still good, isn't it?

"It sure is, Mac," said Buxton, and he brought him the articles
required.

When the prisoner had begun to write awkwardly by the flickering
light, the men engaged in a whispered conversation.

"Say, Mac--" Timmins began hesitatingly, and paused. Then, abruptly,
he continued boldly: "I've got a proposition to make you."

"What is it?"

"Buxton and m