ith a cropped
thatch of white, and dancing brown eyes. Sixty years had in nowise
impaired his vigour. He was an incorrigible optimist and a dreamer.

His long-pent tongue ran like a mechanical toy when the spring is
released. He had a thousand schemes for the future, into all of which,
as a matter of course, he immediately incorporated Sam. Sam had come
to be his partner. That was settled without discussion. Sam, weary in
body and mind, was content to let somebody run him.

"West of me, on the other side of the gully yonder, there's another
handsome piece of land. Slopes down from the hills to the river-bank
smooth as a lady's bosom! Not a stick on it, either; all ready to turn
over. Now you take that and put up a shack on it, and we'll work the
two pieces together with my tools.

"In the meantime, till you get a little ahead, you work for me for
wages, see? I've got my crop in, all right--potatoes and barley; now
I've got to build me a house. I need help with it. I'll pay you in
grub."

"That certainly is decent of you," murmured Sam.

"Cut it out!" cried Ed. "A man has got to have a partner. Say, in a
month already I'm near gibbering with the lonesomeness. It was a lucky
stroke for both of us that brought you to my door."

They talked until late--that is to say, Ed talked. Sam warmed
gratefully to his friendliness--it was genuine friendliness, that
demanded nothing in return; but in the end the uninterrupted stream of
talk confused his dulled faculties.

He could neither take it in properly nor answer intelligently. When Ed
suggested turning in, therefore, he declined to share the tent.

"I like to lie by myself," he said.

"That's all right!" cried Ed. "Many is like that. Maybe you wouldn't
get much sleep with me anyhow. I ain't half talked out yet."

"I'll go lie in my own field," said Sam with a wry smile.

So he had made the little shelter of leaves, facing the river, and
built a fire in front. But to-night he could not win forgetfulness.

In three days he had walked close on a hundred miles, and the last
long day had overtaxed his strength. He was in that most wretched of
states, too fatigued to sleep. His body ached all over, and his mind
was filled with black hopelessness.

As long as he had been on the road he had been buoyed up by movement,
by the passing scene. To youth a journey always suggests escape from
oneself. Now that he had arrived he found that he had brought his
burden along with hi