but that day it all came back. This week
I met my brother. I found him dying, almost dead, up in the Big Horn
Valley. That morning my heart carried hell in it. To-day it is like what
I think heaven must be." As he spoke these words a light broke over
his face, and again he stood silent, striving to regain control of his
voice.

"Blanked if he don't hold the cards!" said "Mexico" in a thick voice to
"Peachy" Budd.

"Full flush," answered "Peachy."

"Mexico" was in the grasp of the elemental emotions of his untutored
nature. His swarthy face was twisted like the face of a man in torture.
His black eyes were gleaming like two fires from under his shaggy
eyebrows.

"How it came about," continued the doctor, in a quiet, even tone, "I am
not going to tell. But this I am going to say, I know it was God's great
mercy, His great kindness it was that took the hate out of my heart. I
forgave my brother that day--and--God forgave me. That's all there is
to it. It's the biggest thing that has ever come to me. I have got
my brother back just as when we were little chaps at the Old Mill." A
sudden choke caught the speaker's voice. The firm lips quivered and
the strong hands writhed themselves in a mighty effort to master the
emotions surging through his soul.

Tommy Tate was openly sniffling and wiping his eyes. "Peachy" Budd was
swearing audibly his emotions, but, most of all, "Mexico's" swarthy face
betrayed the intensity of his feelings. He had grasped the back of the
seat before him and was leaning toward the speaker as if held under an
hypnotic spell.

Again the doctor, getting his voice steady, went on. "I have just a word
more to say. I would like to give credit for this that happened to me to
the One we have been reading about this afternoon, and I do so with all
my heart. I came near being coward enough and mean enough to go away
without owning this up before you. How He did it, I do not pretend
to know. I'm not a preacher. But He did it, and that's what chiefly
concerns me. And what He did for me I guess He can do for any of you.
And now I've got to square up some things. 'Mexico'--" At the sound of
his name "Mexico" started violently and, involuntarily, his hand went,
with a quick motion, toward his hip--"I've taken a lot from you. I'd
like to pay it back." The voice was humble, earnest, kind.

"Mexico," taken by surprise, shifted his tobacco to the other side of
his mouth, stood up and drawled out, "Haow? Me? Pay