There was a slight hesitation and a long breath before the answer came. “I am ashamed to tell you, Mr. Cabot. I value your good opinion so very much that it comes hard to let you know what a weak and cowardly thing I have been, and am.” “Cowardly--that I do not believe. You may be weak; all of us are that; in fact, it seems to be the distinguishing attribute of the human family. But out with it, whatever it is. You can trust me.” “Oh, I know that, sir! If you were only less of a man and more like myself, it would be easier to do it. But I will tell you the whole story. By the fourth of November I shall not be alive, and I have known it for a year.” Mr. Cabot turned in surprise. “Why do you think that?” But Amos went on without heeding the question. “I knew it when I asked Molly to be my wife; and all the time that she has gone on loving me more and more, I have known it, and done all I could to make things worse. And now, as the time approaches and I realize that in a few weeks she will be a broken-hearted woman--for I have learned what her affection is and how much I am to her--now I begin to see what I have done. God knows it is hard enough to die and leave her, but to die only to have played a practical joke on the girl for whom I would joyfully give a thousand lives if I had them, is too much.” He arose, and standing before her father, made a slight gesture as of surrender and resignation. The older man looked away toward the distant river, but said nothing. “Listen, sir, and try to believe me.” Mr. Cabot raised his glance to the dark face and saw truth and an open heart in the eyes fixed solemnly upon his own; and he recognized a being transformed by a passion immeasurably stronger than himself. “When I found she loved me I could think of nothing else. Why should I not be happy for the short time I had to live? Her love was more to me than any earthly thing, than any possible hereafter. Better one summer with her than to live forever and not have known her. Oh! I thought of her side of it, often and often; many a night I have done nothing else, but I could no more give her up than I could lift this hill.” He paused, drew a long breath, as if at the hopelessness of words to convey his meaning, then added, very calmly: “Now I am soberer, as the end approaches, and I love her more than ever: but I will do whatever you say; anything that will make her happier. No sacrifice can be too great, and I promise you I will make it. I have often wished the bull had killed me that day, then I should have her love and respect forever; and yours too, perhaps.” “You have both now, Amos. But tell me why you think you are to die by November fourth?” Amos resumed his seat upon the rock and answered: “Because I have seen myself lying dead on that day.” “I have sometimes wondered,” said Mr. Cabot, “if that temptation would not prove too strong for you.”