ritchen, bringin' his fist down upon
the table with a bang. 'Why don't ye answer? We can't fool here all
day.'

"Then the parson turned and looked square into his eyes. He was very
calm, an' he spoke so quiet an' solemn like:

"'Man,' says he, 'd'ye mean it? Fer Nellie's sake, an' the kids, won't
ye have marcy. Ye know I didn't do them deeds, an' ye know, Bill
Pritchen,' says he, movin' up close to the chairman, 'that ye yerself
are the one that left that young chap out thar to die. Ye was his
pardner. Ye stole his gold, that's what ye did.'

"The parson could go no further, fer the men set up sich a shoutin' an'
a laughin' that ye couldn't hear yerself speak.

"Then he gave them a look I'll never fergit, full of scorn and pity. I
never thought a man could look that way. He straightened himself up,
an' turned to the chairman.

"I'll go,' says he, 'I'll hit the trail. I'll leave ye. But remember,
I'll come back when I git ready.'

"'Come back, if ye dare,' says Pritchen, an' the men hooted as the poor
chap walked from the buildin' as proud as a lord.

"I follered 'im to his cabin, fer I was sore hit, an' stood with 'im as
he was ready to leave. He had his rifle, snow-shoes, his medical case,
an' a small pack of grub on his back. He wouldn't say much, not even
whar he was goin'. He seemed like a man in a dream.

"'Sol,' says he, jist afore he started, 'I'm as innocent of them
charges as the new-born babe.'

"'I know it,' says I, 'but what kin we do?'

"'Nothin',' says he. 'Nothin' now, but the Good Lord will bring to
light the hidden things of darkness in His own way, never ye fear that,
Sol.'

"Then he looked across to this cabin, an' remained very still fer a
time.

"'Won't ye say good-bye?' says I.

"'I can't,' says he, with a groan. 'With this shadder over me, I can't
face her; it's better not. But ye'll look after'm, Sol,' an' he lays
his hand upon my shoulder.

"'Till death,' says I.

"'God bless ye, man,' says he, an' with that he was gone--gone out
inter the night through the wild howlin' tempest."

For some time the three sat in silence, each wrapped in earnest
thought. As Constance listened to the snow-laden wind beating against
the window, she pictured Keith battling his way through the dreary
night, or else crouching by a lonely camp fire. Her ideas of
Christianity were undergoing a marked change. Formerly she had
associated religion with large churches, where well-dre