A moment after he was gone, a curious change took place in the convict, a reaction,—­the excitement being gone.  The pain and exposure and hunger had room to tell now on body and soul.  He stretched himself out on a drift of snow, drunken with sleep, yet every nerve quivering and conscious, trying to catch another echo of Soule’s step.  He was his brother, he was all he had; it was terrible to be thus alone in the world:  going back to the time when they worked in the shop together.  He raised his head even, and called him,—­“Jack!”—­once or twice, as he used to then.  It was too late.  Such a generous, bull-headed fellow he was then, taking his own way, and being led at last.  He was gone now, and forever.  He was all he had.

The day was out broadly now,—­a thorough winter’s day, cold and clear, the frosty air sending a glow through your blood.  It sent none into Yarrow’s thinned veins:  he was too far gone with all these many years.  The place, as I said, was a lonely one, niched between hills, yet near enough main roads for him to hear sounds from them:  people calling to each other, about Christmas often; carriages rolling by; great Conestoga wagons, with their dozens of tinkling bells, and the driver singing; dogs and children chasing each other through the snow.  The big world was awake and busy and glad, but it passed him by.

“For this man that might have been it has as much use as for a bit of cold victuals thrown into the street.  And the worst is,” with a bitter smile, “I know it, to my heart’s core.”

The morning passed by, as he lay there, growing colder, his brain duller.

“I did not think this coat was so thin,” he would mutter, as he tried to pull it over him.

If he got up, where should he go?  What use, eh?  It was warmer in the snow than walking about.  Conscious at last only of a metallic taste in his mouth, a weakness creeping closer to his heart every moment, and a dull wonder if there could yet be a chance.  It seemed very far away now.  And Martha and the little chaps—­Oh, well!

Some hours may have passed as he lay there, and sleep came; for I fancy it was a dream that brought the final sharp thought into his brain.  He dragged himself up on one elbow, the old queer smile on his lips.

“I will try,” he said.

It took him some time to make his way out into the main road, but he did it at last, straightening his wet hair under the old cap.

“It’s so like a dog to die that way!  I’ll try, just once, how the world looks when I face it.”

He sat down outside of a blacksmith’s forge, the only building in sight, on the pump-trough, and looked wearily about.  His head fell now and then on his breast from weakness.

“It won’t be a very long trial.  I’ll not beg for food, and I’m not equal to much work just now,”—­with the same grim half-smile.

No one was in sight but the blacksmith and some crony, looking over a newspaper.  Inside.  They nodded, when they saw him, and said,—­