more, and felt again the zest of life.
As the years drifted by she watched the development of her boy, and was
contented with it. Not altogether, but nearly that. The soft side of his
heart was larger than the other side of it. It was his only defect, in
her eyes. But she considered that his love for her and worship of
her made up for it. He was a good hater--that was well; but it was a
question if the materials of his hatreds were of as tough and enduring a
quality as those of his friendships--and that was not so well.

The years drifted on. Archy was become a handsome, shapely, athletic
youth, courteous, dignified, companionable, pleasant in his ways, and
looking perhaps a trifle older than he was, which was sixteen. One
evening his mother said she had something of grave importance to say to
him, adding that he was old enough to hear it now, and old enough and
possessed of character enough and stability enough to carry out a stern
plan which she had been for years contriving and maturing. Then she told
him her bitter story, in all its naked atrociousness. For a while the
boy was paralyzed; then he said,

"I understand. We are Southerners; and by our custom and nature there is
but one atonement. I will search him out and kill him."

"Kill him? No! Death is release, emancipation; death is a favor. Do I
owe him favors? You must not hurt a hair of his head."

The boy was lost in thought awhile; then he said,

"You are all the world to me, and your desire is my law and my pleasure.
Tell me what to do and I will do it."

The mother's eyes beamed with satisfaction, and she said,

"You will go and find him. I have known his hiding-place for eleven
years; it cost me five years and more of inquiry, and much money, to
locate it. He is a quartz-miner in Colorado, and well-to-do. He lives
in Denver. His name is Jacob Fuller. There--it is the first time I have
spoken it since that unforgettable night. Think! That name could have
been yours if I had not saved you that shame and furnished you a cleaner
one. You will drive him from that place; you will hunt him down and
drive him again; and yet again, and again, and again, persistently,
relentlessly, poisoning his life, filling it with mysterious terrors,
loading it with weariness and misery, making him wish for death, and
that he had a suicide's courage; you will make of him another Wandering
Jew; he shall know no rest any more, no peace of mind, no placid sleep;
you shall