ment. The door creaked upon its
frosty hinges when he opened it.

'Thirty below zero,' he whispered as he came in. 'Win's gone down a
leetle bit, mebbe.'

Uncanny noises broke in upon the stillness of the old house. Its
timbers, racked in the mighty grip of the cold, creaked and settled.
Sometimes there came a sharp, breaking sound, like the crack of bones.

'If any man oughter go t' Heaven, he had,' said Uncle Eb, as he drew on
his boots.

'Think he's in Heaven?' I asked.

'Hain't a doubt uv it,' said he, as he chewed a moment, preparing for
expectoration.

'What kind of a place do you think it is?' I asked.

'Fer one thing,' he said, deliberately, 'nobody'll die there, 'less
he'd ought to; don't believe there's goin' t' be any need o' swearin'
er quarrellin'. To my way o' thinkin' it'll be a good deal like Dave
Brower's farm--nice, smooth land and no stun on it, an' hills an'
valleys an' white clover aplenty, an' wheat an' corn higher'n a man's
head. No bull thistles, no hard winters, no narrer contracted fools;
no long faces, an' plenty o' work. Folks sayin' "How d'y do" 'stid o'
"goodbye", all the while--comin' 'stid o' gain'. There's goin' t' be
some kind o' fun there. I ain' no idee what 'tis. Folks like it an' I
kind o' believe 'at when God's gin a thing t' everybody he thinks purty
middlin' well uv it.'

'Anyhow, it seems a hard thing to die,' I remarked.

'Seems so,' he said thoughtfully. 'Jes' like ever'thing else--them 'at
knows much about it don' have a great deal t' say. Looks t' me like
this: I cal'ate a man hes on the everidge ten things his heart is sot
on--what is the word I want--?'

'Treasures?' I suggested.

'Thet's it,' said he. 'Ev'ry one hes about ten treasures. Some hev
more--some less. Say one's his strength, one's his plan, the rest is
them he loves, an' the more he loves the better 'tis fer him. Wall, they
begin t' go one by one. Some die, some turn agin' him. Fin's it hard t'
keep his allowance. When he's only nine he's lost eggzac'ly one-tenth uv
his dread o' dyin'. Bime bye he counts up--one-two-three-four-five-an'
thet's all ther is left. He figgers it up careful. His strength is gone,
his plan's a fillure, mebbe, an' this one's dead an' thet one's dead,
an' t'other one better be. Then 's 'bout half-ways with him. If he
lives till the ten treasures is all gone, God gives him one more--thet's
death. An' he can swop thet off an' git back all he's lost. Then he
begins t' think