things, "The Butterfly and the
Beetle." So beautifully, so touchingly, had he pictured the little
romance, of which Priscilla herself was part, that the tears fell from
the girl's eyes while her lips were smiling at the tender humour. The
undercurrent of meaning threw new light on the lonely life of the rich,
but wretched man. The joy depicted in simple, friendly intercourse, the
aspiration of the Beetle, the grateful appreciation for the plain, common
happenings that in most lives were taken for granted, but which in his
rose to monumental importance, endeared him to her anew. It brought back
to her what Boswell had told her of his relations with Farwell Maxwell,
her Anton Farwell. She could now, with her broader, more mature reason,
understand the devotion the cripple had given the one man who, in the
empty years, had taken him without reservation, had ignored his
limitations, and had been his friend and comrade.

Suddenly she asked:

"Have you heard from--from Master Farwell lately?" The question startled
Boswell.

"Yes. I had a letter yesterday. He has been ill. That squaw woman, Long
Jean, took care of him. The letter sounded restless. There'll be trouble
with Farwell before we get through. My letters are evidently lacking
power, and your silence baffles him."

"Poor Master Farwell!"

"I fancy he thought Joan Moss would go to him. It has been hard work to
build a barrier between him and her that could satisfy, now that he
believes you have told her of his being among the living."

"What have you said to him all this time?"

Boswell shifted his position, and Priscilla saw the haggard, careworn
look spread over his face. By sudden insight she realized that he looked
old, pitiful, and far from well, and her heart filled with sympathy.
The half-mystical life was telling upon him, becoming a burden.

"Oh, at first I said the surprise of knowing he lived had made her, made
Joan Moss, ill. It took nearly six months to cover that, and I did some
good writing during that period. Then I told him there were things to
settle; then, fear for his safety overpowered her: dread of being
tracked. And since then--well, since then there has been silence. Can
you not understand? His pride has asserted itself at last. If she will
not communicate with him herself, he will have none of me; none of you.
Has he ever said a word about her to--you?"

"Never," Priscilla answered.

"But," Boswell went on, "I notice a change in him;