went on.

'You're sweetly welcome,' said the other; but he was waved down by an
impatient gesture.

'It's not at all unlikely that I may come and beg for it. You're not to
give me any. You understand?' The station-keeper stared in the dusk, but
made no answer or sign of answer. 'It's not at all unlikely that I may
come and try to persuade you that this was a joke, and that I didn't
mean it. I may offer you ten dollars for a drink--twenty, thirty, a
hundred. I'm not to have it. And if you allow yourself to be persuaded
to give me so much as one teaspoonful, no matter when or why, I'll shoot
you next day, so sure as I am a living sinner.'

'Oh, you will, will you?

'I will, by God!'

'That's all right,' said the station-keeper. 'You're a very pretty
neighbour, you are, _by_ George!'

'I am,' the other man assented--'a very pretty neighbour.'

They parted there without another word. The man of the camp went back to
his fire, and the man of the station to his shanty. Away below the camp
the canon was dense with shade, but far off up the valley one rod of
blinding sunlight struck the most distant peak, and made its snows
dazzle on the eye. The snow-peak shone for half an hour, and then
by imperceptible changes mellowed to a clear pale gold. Then by fine
gradations it grew to a pale rose, a deep rose, a cold gray, a solemn
purple. By this time the sky beyond the peak was a fiery glory. This
faded in turn, first in a gush of liquid amber, then in soft green, then
in blue, then violet. A lone star scintillated over the for crest, went
out, relit itself, went out again, twinkled for a time, and at last
shone steadfast with a diamond lustre.

As the darkness gathered, the fire, which fora while gleamed more
brightly, sank to a dull red, fading and brightening at the falling and
rising of the wind, but growing with every minute less responsive to
that soft influence.

The stars twinkled over the sky in myriads. The man of the camp threw
away the stump of his last cigarette, entered his tent, pulled off his
boots, rolled himself in a blanket, and lay down, facing the distant
peak and the one shining speck of a world above it.

'You have made a hideous muddle of things.' he said at last--'a hideous
muddle. Nothing to fear, for everything has happened. Nothing to hope
for, for nothing can happen any more. Fortune wasted, friends wasted,
genius wasted, heart wasted, life wasted. Ah, well! I ought to sleep
to-night; I'm