"I reckon you can wait to eat," Sally Taber had suggested; "ole Andy has been dyin' with consumption ever since dat time when he went to The Forge an' got baptized in his wife's night shift--him not being able to get a robe! Andy took a mighty stiff chill that-er-day an' it war like a finger pintin' the way to his grave. Andy war thirty when he waddled into de Branch in dem swaddling clothes, an' he's over ninety now. I expect he can hol' on till you've tended to yo' stummick." But Sandy had not waited. He went to Andrew and found the old man wandering on to the end of his journey in a very happy frame of mind. He was, to himself, no longer the weak creature dying in his poor cabin. Lying on the comfortable cot Sandy had provided, smilingly gazing through the broad window Sandy's inspired saw and hammer had designed, he believed himself to be a young and strong man helping another up The Way with guiding hand and cheerful courage. Sitting by the bed, Sandy took the cold, shrivelled fingers in his warm young ones, and the comforting touch focussed the wavering mind. "Eh, there, son, it's a right smart climb, but the end's just yonder! See that-er-light?" "Yes, old friend, I see the light." Sandy bent low and whispered gently. "That-er-light, son, is in Parson Starr's window. Starr, Starr! He war a mighty clear star an' his light ain't going out, I reckon. Hold fast, son! A few more steps and the totin' will be over. It's been right heavy goin'--but----" The poor old body struggled to rise and Sandy, putting an arm under the shoulders, lifted Andrew to a sitting position. "Do you see the--light, old friend?" "I--see--the star!" "Yes. The star and the light, Andy?" "Yes--that's--home!" Facing the west with wide welcoming eyes, Andrew slipped from life so gently and quietly that for some minutes Sandy held him without knowing that the light had gone out and the weary soul had reached home by The Appointed Way. When the knowledge came to him, his eyes dimmed and reverently he lay the stiffening form back upon the pillow; crossed the thin, worn hands upon the peaceful breast, and turned to his next duty with a murmured farewell to ears that no longer could be comforted by his kind words. Sandy went home and ate his evening meal with his father. He did not mention Andrew's death. Martin was so genuinely happy at having his son to himself and Lansing Treadwell out of the house, that Sandy disliked to shadow the joy. "Suppose we read a bit," he suggested when the two were seated in the study. Martin accepted joyously. "What shall it be, Dad?"