. It was lighter out of doors than
in the cottage, for the shades were drawn at Farwell's windows; he
disliked the idea of being watched from without.

"I can't rest, Master Farwell, till I've done my task," said the poor
soul, sinking into the nearest chair. "And it's to get your help I've
come."

"I'll do what I can," murmured Farwell. "What I'll be permitted to do,"
he felt would be more true.

"I've said more than once, Mr. Farwell, that were my boys like other boys
I'd give up the business of the White Fish. Well, my lads were like
others, only they were keener about deceiving me. I thought I'd made them
strong and sure, but I did the same hurt to my flesh and blood that I did
to others. I put evil too close and easy to them. I prided myself on what
I had never done! They'll come back to me no more. Could I have a talk
with them, things might be straightened out; but I must do what is to be
done alone."

Not a quiver shook the low, severe voice. The very hardness moved Farwell
to deep pity.

"It's now, Mr. Farwell, that I'd have you come to the Lodge and help me
with my task, and when it's over I want you to stand with me beside those
two empty graves and say what you can for them who never had the right
mother to teach them. I'm no church woman; the job of priest and minister
sickens me, but I know a good man when I see one. You helped the lads
while they lived; you risked your life to help them home at the last; and
it's you who shall consecrate the empty beds where I'd have my lads lie
if the power were mine!"

Farwell got up and paced the room restlessly. Suddenly, with Ledyard's
recognition, the poor shell of respectability and self-respect which,
during his lonely years, had grown about him, was torn asunder, and he
was what he knew the doctor believed him. To such, Mary McAdam's request
seemed a cruel jest, a taunt to drive him into the open. And yet he knew
that up to the last ditch he must hold to what he had secured for
himself--the trust and friendship of these simple people. Hard and
distasteful as the effort was he dared not turn himself from it. Full
well he knew that Ledyard's magnifying glass was, unseen, being used
against him even now. The delay was probably caused by the doctor's
silent investigation of his recent life, his daily deeds. He could well
imagine the amusement, contempt, and disbelief that would meet the story
of his poor, blameless years during which he had played with childre