I took Weston to Mary’s house that day when I found him lying in the charcoal clearing, with little Colonel standing over him wailing.  Tearing open his coat and shirt, I stanched his wound as best I could.  Then I called the others to me.  Tip and Arnold picked him up and carried him, while Murphy Kallaberger and I broke a path through the bushes, and Aaron ran on to Warden’s to tell them of the accident and have them prepare for the wounded man.  Warden’s was the nearest house, but that was a mile from the clearing, and in the woods our progress was slow.  Once free of the ridges and in the open fields the way was easy, and Murphy could lend a hand to the others.

“He’s monstrous light,” Tip said.  “He doesn’t seem no more than skin and bones in fancy rags.”

It is strange how even our clothes go back on us when we are down.  Weston I had always known as a lanky man, but about his loosely fitting garments there had been an air of careless distinction.  Now that he was broken, they hung with such an odd perversion as to bring from its hiding-place every sharp angle in the thin frame.  The best nine tailors living could not have clothed him better for that little journey, nor lessened a whit the pathos of the thin arms that lay limply across the shoulders of Tip and Arnold.

“He’s a livin’ skelington,” old Arker whispered, as I plodded along at his side.  “Poor devil!”

“Poor devil!” said I. For looking at the almost lifeless man I thought of my own good fortune.  This morning I had envied him.  Now he had nothing but his wealth, and his hold on that was weakening fast.  I had everything—­life and health, home and friends—­I had Mary.  As we parted a few minutes before, up there in the woods, I had pitied him.  He had seemed so lonely, so bitter in his loneliness, and yet at heart so good.  Now his eyes half opened as they carried him on, his glance met mine in recognition, and it seemed to me that he smiled faintly.  But it was the same bitter smile.  “Poor devil!” I said to myself.

And we carried him into Mary’s house.

She was waiting for us, and without a word led us upstairs to a room where we laid him on a bed.

“I stumbled, Mark, I stumbled,” he whispered, as I leaned over him.  “The fox came and I ran for it—­then I fell—­and then the little hound came, and then——­”

Mary was bathing his forehead, and for the first time he saw her.

“I stumbled, Mary,” he whispered.  “I swear it.”

* * * * * *

It was nearly ten o’clock when I left Weston’s room.  The doctor was with him and was preparing to bivouac at the patient’s side.  He was a young man from the big valley.  Luther Warden had driven to the county town and brought him back to us.  The first misgivings I had when I caught sight of his youthful, beardless face were dispelled by the business-like way in which he went about his