Alton rose up and moved somewhat stiffly towards the window, where he leaned against the log casing, looking out greedily upon the sunlit valley.  Then he limped back to the table and rested both hands upon it.

“I figure it’s because I haven’t used it, but this leg doesn’t feel the same as it used to,” he said.  “Did it strike you that I walked kind of stiffly?”

Seaforth knew that the moment he feared had come, but he felt his courage fail him and turned his head aside.  “I was not watching you,” he said.

Alton, who appeared a trifle perturbed, sat down, and glanced at the partly finished meal upon the table disgustedly.  “Tell them to take those things away, and bring me something a man can eat.  Then I want my long boots and the nicest clothes I have.”

“They will not be much use to you.  You’re not going out for another week, anyway.”

Alton laughed a little.  “Well,” he said, “we’ll see.  Bring me a good solid piece of venison, and take those things away.”

He made an ample meal, dressed himself with wholly unusual fastidiousness, and when Seaforth left him for a few moments strode out of the room.  One leg felt very stiff and he clutched the balustrade a moment when he came to the head of a short stairway, then stiffened himself, and, putting all the weight he could on the limb that was least useful, stepped forward resolutely to descend it.  His knee bent suddenly under him, he clutched at the rails, and missed them, reeled and lost his balance, and there was a crash as Seaforth sprang out of his room.  He was in time to see his comrade rise and lean against the logs at the foot of the stairway very white and grim in face, and shivered a little as he went down.

“What’s the meaning of this, Charley ?” said Alton with an ominous quietness.  “I just put my weight on my left foot—­and down I came.”

Again Seaforth shrank from his task.  “You were warned not to try to walk much for a week or two.”

“Pshaw!” said Alton with sudden fierceness.  “There’s more than that.”

Seaforth laid his hand compassionately upon his comrade’s shoulder.  “It had to come sooner or later—­and I was afraid to tell you before.  You will never walk quite as well as you used to, Harry.”

Alton clutched the balustrade, and a greyness crept into his face.  “I,” he said very slowly, “a cripple—­all my life!”

Seaforth said nothing, and there was a silence for almost a minute until Alton slowly straightened himself.  “Well,” he said quietly, “there is no use kicking—­but this was to have been the best day of my life.”

Seaforth understood him and saw his opportunity.  “I don’t think that will make any difference, Harry.”

Alton seemed to choke down a groan.  “I had so little before,” he said.

Again Seaforth laid his hand upon his shoulder, “Shake yourself together, Harry.  After all, I don’t think it is the things that one can offer which count,” he said.  “Let me help you back.”