hat he was imprisoned forever.

Foolish as all this was, it had its effect upon the man. He played with
the thought as a child might play with a forbidden toy. Then he decided
to test the matter. He would have to buy clothes and provisions for the
winter--he always made a pilgrimage about this time. There would be a
letter from Boswell, too. There always was one in September. So on a
certain morning Farwell turned the key in his lock and quite naturally
set forth with a sense of exaltation and freedom he had imagined he would
never feel again.

Followed by his dogs, he went to his boat, which happened just then to be
tied at the ricketty dock of the White Fish.

"It's off for a tramp you are, maybe?" asked Mrs. McAdam from her
doorway. "God keep you, Mr. Farwell, and bring you back safe and sound."

At this Farwell paused.

"I think I'll leave the dogs behind," he said. "I may wish to hurry back,
and a brace of dogs, keen on scents and full of spirits, is a handicap on
a journey."

"Sure I'll feed and care for the two, and welcome, and if their staying
behind brings you quicker home, 'tis a good piece of work I'm doing for
Kenmore."

With this Mary McAdam came down to the boat and looked keenly at Farwell.

"Are you well?" she asked with a gentleness new and touching. "'Tis pale
you look, and thin, I'm thinking. I'm getting to depend upon you, and the
thought of anything happening to you grieves the heart of me. In all
Kenmore there's no one as I lean on like you. There be nights when I look
out toward your house and see your light a-shining when all else is dark,
and say to myself, 'The master and me' over and over, and I'm less
lonely."

For a moment Farwell could not speak. Once an inward desire to laugh,
to scoff, would have driven him to supernatural gravity; now he merely
smiled with grave pleasure, and said:

"A tramp will do me good, Mrs. McAdam. Thank you. I'll take your words
with me for comfort and cheer."

The first night Farwell slept beside his fire, not ten miles from
Kenmore. He had revelled in his freedom all day, had played like a boy,
often retracing his steps, carefully using the same footprints, and
laughing as he imagined the confusion of any one trying to follow him;
the vague somebody being always Ledyard.

After a frugal meal, Farwell smoked his pipe, even attempted a snatch of
rollicking song, then, rolling himself in a blanket, fell into natural
and happy slumber.

At four he