ought of him caged and alone, in the
wilds, I found lying to him about the only thing I could do. So I kept
his belief in Joan Moss and his fortune. Then something happened to him.
I never knew what it was, but it seemed to take all the hope and courage
from him. He wanted me to see that Joan Moss was well taken care of, and
in case of his death she must have all that he died possessed of. Just at
that time Joan Moss came to me, a wreck! She lived only six months, but
for his sake I saw that she had all that he would have had for her. She
thought that he gave it to her, too, or at least she thought his money
gave it, since it was in his will that she should have it. His name was
on her lips when the end came. I will tell him that some day. It will
help him to forgive me. After that I wrote and wrote to him, making
frantic efforts to secure to him, until he were free, what existed no
longer on earth! That is all."

The fire had died down and become ashy; the wind no longer howled; the
night had fallen into peace at last.

Priscilla got up stiffly, for she was cold and nerve-worn. She walked
unsteadily to Boswell, her tear-stained face twitching with emotion, her
hands outstretched. In her eyes was the look that only once or twice
in his life had Boswell ever seen directed toward him by any human
being--the look that claimed the hidden and best in him, forgetting the
deformities that limited him.

"I think you are the best man on earth, the noblest friend. Oh! what can
we do for Master Farwell?"

Quite simply Boswell took the hands in his. Her eyes made him brave and
strong, and her "we" throbbed in his thoughts like a warm and tender
caress.

"You must leave that to me," he said gently, giving his kindly smile. "I
cannot share this burden with you. So long have I borne it that it has
become sacred to me. It means only making the story a little longer, a
little stronger. Some day he will have to know--some day; but not now!
not now!"

Just then a distant church bell struck the midnight hour. Solemnly,
insistently, the twelve strokes rose and fell.

"The wind has passed," whispered Boswell.

"Yes, and the fire is dead. You are very, very tired, I am sure,"
Priscilla murmured.

Something new and maternal had entered into her thought and voice. While
life lasted she was always to see in the crippled man a brave and patient
soul who played with sternest problems because he had no other toys with
which to while awa