masterful self-command, the reserve, the conquered bitterness of the
still-water sort of nature, that is supposed to run to such depths.
He tried to be bright, and his sweet old boyish self. He would laugh
sometimes in a pitiful, pathetic fashion. He took to petting dogs,
looking into their large, solemn eyes with his wistful, questioning
blue ones; he would kiss them, as women sometimes do, and call them
"dear old fellow," in tones that had tears; and once in the course
of his travels while at a little way-station, he discovered a huge
St. Bernard imprisoned by some mischance in an empty freight car;
the animal was nearly dead from starvation, and it seemed to salve
his own sick heart to rescue back the dog's life. Nobody claimed the
big starving creature, the train hands knew nothing of its owner,
and gladly handed it over to its deliverer. "Hudson," he called
it, and afterwards when Joe McDonald would relate the story of his
brother's life he invariably terminated it with, "And I really
believe that big lumbering brute saved him." From what, he was never
to say.

But all things end, and he heard of her at last. She had never
returned to the Post, as he at first thought she would, but had gone
to the little town of B----, in Ontario, where she was making her
living at embroidery and plain sewing.

The September sun had set redly when at last he reached the
outskirts of the town, opened up the wicket gate, and walked up the
weedy, unkept path leading to the cottage where she lodged.

Even through the twilight, he could see her there, leaning on the
rail of the verandah--oddly enough she had about her shoulders the
scarlet velvet cloak she wore when he had flung himself so madly