new birth. He seemed born again, this time an
American--a Western American. In the measure of a good old homely
phrase, some sense (a sense of the fundamental oneness of humanity) had
been beaten into his head.

As he lay there, helpless and suffering, he was first of all aware of
Fan, whose face shone above him like the moon, and was soon able to
understand her unwearying devotion and to remember that she was his
wife. She was always present when he woke, and he accepted her presence
as he accepted sunshine, knowing nothing of the sleeplessness and toil
which her attendance involved--a knowledge of this came later.

At times gruff old Blondell himself bent his shaggy head above his bed
to ask how he felt, and no mother could have been more considerate than
Mrs. Blondell.

"What right have I to despise these people?" he asked himself one day.
"What have I done to lift myself above them?" (And this question
extended to the neighbors, to the awkward ranchers who came stiffly and
with a sort of awe into his room to "pass a good word," as they said.)
"They are a good sort, after all"--his heart prompted him to admit.

But his deepest penitence, his tenderest gratitude, rose to Fan, whom
care and love had marvelously refined. He was able to forget her
careless speech and to look quite through her untidy ways to the golden,
good heart which beat beneath her unlovely gowns. Nothing was too hard,
too menial, for her hands, and her smile warmed his midnight sick-room
like sunshine.

He was curiously silent even after his strength was sufficient for
speech. Content to lie on his bed and watch her as she moved about him,
he answered only in monosyllables, while the deep current of his love
gathered below his reticence. As he came to a full understanding of what
he had been and to a sense of his unworthy estimate of her and her
people, his passion broke bounds.

"Fan!" he called out one morning, "I'm not fit to receive all your care
and devotion--but I'm going to try to be; I'm going to set to work in
earnest when I get up. Your people shall be my people, your cares my
cares." He could not go on, and Fan, who was looking down at him in
wonder, stooped and laid a kiss on his quivering lips.

"You get well, boy; that's all you need to worry about," she said, and
her face was very sweet--for she smiled upon him as if he were a child.

THE LONESOME MAN

_--the murderer still seeks forgetfulness in the solitude,