ret of life is to be content with what is
decreed, to earn bread and make store only as conscience directs, and
not to set one's heart on material things.

He got out of bed soon after daylight, dressed, and went to the stable
and hitched his horse to the buggy. The world was washed clean, that was
sure. It was muddy under foot, but it was a country where the roads soon
dried, and he would suffer little inconvenience from the storm. He bade
his host good-bye and drove away intent to reach the city in time for
breakfast. He found the roads heavy, and the injury of the storm was
everywhere to be seen. Yet it all did not distract him, for he
was thinking hard of the things that lay ahead of him to do--the
heart-breaking things that his defeat meant to him.

At last he approached a bridge across a stream which had been badly
swept by the storm. It was one of the covered bridges not uncommon in
Canada. It was not long, as the river was narrow, and he did not see
that the middle pier of the bridge had been badly injured. Yet as he
entered the bridge, his horse still trotting, he was conscious of a
hollow, semi-thunderous noise which seemed not to belong to the horse's
hoofs and the iron wheels of the carriage. He raised his eyes to see
that the other end of the bridge was clear, and at that moment he was
conscious of an unsteady motion of the bridge, of a wavering of the
roof, and then, before he had time to do aught, he saw the roof and the
sides and the floor of the bridge collapse and sink slowly down.

With a cry, he sprang from the carriage to retrace his way; but he only
climbed up a ladder that grew every instant steeper; and all at once he
was plunged downwards after his horse and carriage into the stream. He
could swim, and as he swept down this thought came to him--that he might
be able to get the shore, as he heard the cries of people on the bank.
It was a hope that died at the moment of its birth, however, for he was
struck by a falling timber on the head.

When, an hour later, he was found in an eddy of the river by the shore,
he was dead, and his finders could only compose his limbs decently. But
in the afternoon, the papers of Montreal had the following head-lines;
DEFEAT AND DEATH OF BARODE BAROUCHE THE END OF A LONG AND GREAT CAREER

As soon as Carnac Grier heard the news, he sent a note to his mother
telling her all he knew. When she read the letter, she sank to the
floor, overcome. Her son had triumphed