rfumes. It was the heart of the swamp, a riot of
intoxicating, steaming, swarming, fragrant, beautiful, tropical life,
without man to make or mar it. All the world was once so, before man was
made.

Did Deal appreciate this beauty? He looked at it, because he could not
get over the feeling that Carl was looking at it too; but he did not
admire it. The old New England spirit was rising within him again at
last, after the crushing palsy of the polar ice, and the icy looks of a
certain blue-eyed woman.

He came out of the swamp an hour before sunset, and, landing, lifted his
brother in his arms, and started northward toward San Miguel. The little
city was near; but the weight of a dead body grown cold is strange and
mighty, and it was late evening before he entered the gate, carrying his
motionless burden. He crossed the little plaza, and went into the
ancient cathedral, laying it down on the chancel-step before the high
altar. It was the only place he could think of; and he was not repelled.
A hanging lamp of silver burned dimly; in a few moments kind hands came
to help him. And thus Carl, who never went to church in life, went there
in death, and, with tapers burning at his head and feet, rested all
night under the picture of the Madonna, with nuns keeping watch and
murmuring their gentle prayers beside him.

The next morning he was buried in the dry little burial-ground on the
knoll overlooking the blue Southern ocean.

When all was over, Deal, feeling strangely lonely, remembered his
promise, and turned toward the post-office. He expected nothing; it was
only one of the poor lad's fancies; still, he would keep his word. There
was nothing for him.

He went out. Then an impulse made him turn back and ask if there was a
letter for Carl. "For Carl Brenner," he said, and thought how strange it
was that there was now no Carl. There was a letter; he put it into his
pocket and left the town, going homeward by the King's Road on foot; the
South Devil should see _him_ no more. He slept part of the night by the
roadside, and reached home the next morning; everything was as he had
left it. He made a fire and boiled some coffee; then he set the little
house in order, loaded his gun, and went out mechanically after game.
The routine of daily life had begun again.

"It's a pleasant old place," he said to himself, as he went through one
of the orange-aisles and saw the wild oranges dotting the ground with
their golden color. "I