loss of his position, but he feared things were
going badly with him. I told him all that Paddy had given me as we
searched the saloons. Ould Michael was not to be seen.

"He will be at home very likely," said McFarquhar. "We will jist put a
stop to this kind of work."

McFarquhar was torn between grief over his friend's trouble and
indignation at his weakness and folly. We rode up to Ould Michael's
cabin. The "office" door was locked and the windows boarded up. In the
garden all was a wild tangle of flowers and weeds. Nature was bravely
doing her best, but she missed the friendly hand that in the past had
directed her energies. The climbing rose covered with opening buds was
here and there torn from the bare logs.

"Man, man!" cried McFarquhar, "this is a terrible change whatever."

We knocked at the side door and waited, but there was no answer. I
pushed the door open and there, in the midst of disorder and dirt, sat
Ould Michael. I could hardly believe it possible that in so short a time
so great a change could come to a man. His hair hung in long grey locks
about his ears, his face was unshaven, his dress dirty and slovenly and
his whole appearance and attitude suggested ruin and despair. But the
outward wreck was evidently only an index to the wreck of soul, that had
gone on. Out of the dark-blue eyes there shone no inner light. The
bright, brave, cheery old soldier was gone, and in his place the figure
of disorder and despair. He looked up at our entering, then turned from
us, shrinking, and put his hands to his face, swaying to and fro and
groaning deeply.

McFarquhar had come prepared to adopt strong measures, but the sight of
Ould Michael, besotted and broken, was more than he could stand.

"Michael, man!" he cried, amazement and grief in his voice. "Aw,
Michael, man! What's this? What's this?"

He went to him and laid his big bony hand on Ould Michael's shoulder. At
his words and touch the old man broke into sobbing, terrible to see.

"Whisht, man," said McFarquhar, as he might to a child, "whist, whist,
lad! It will be well with you yet."

But Ould Michael could not be comforted, but sobbed on and on. A man's
weeping has something terrible in it, but an old man's tears are hardest
of all to bear. McFarquhar stood helpless for some moments; then, taking
Ould Michael by the arm, he said:

"Come out of this, anyway! Come out!"

But it was long before Ould Michael would talk. He sat in silence while