But his face only grew the harder. "Forgive you," he said, as he raised his clenched hand to heaven, invokingly; "may God eternally--" but he faltered, and his voice grew suddenly soft, "forgive you," he added, dropping his arm and lowering his voice contritely. "But I," he began again, in measured passionless words--"I can never forgive you. I never want to see you--either of you--again." And from that hour he never spoke to them, nor looked at them, any more than as though they were not. The funeral was over. He had come home. The rain had ceased. He sat alone on his doorstep. The minister and some well-meaning but mistaken friends, who had tried to comfort him, were gone. Over the western hills the lowering sun broke through the heavy, moving clouds, painting some a lurid tinge, and lining the heavier ones with silver. Checkers noted it absently. "Another lie nailed," he muttered, as the trite old proverb occurred to him. "My cloud is blacker and heavier than any of those--and silver lining? Humph! Well, silver 's demonetized!" Over his face there flitted the ghost of a smile. A smile, not at the sorry jest, but at the thought that at this hour there should have come to him so whimsical a fancy. A number of days went by. He simply drifted, doing a few needful duties mechanically; sometimes eating the food which Mandy prepared for him, but oftener going without altogether; sitting, brooding, hours at a time, gazing vacantly into space. Mrs. Barlow--he learned one day from the doctor, who stopped a moment in passing--had taken a slight turn for the better. Mr. Barlow, the following morning appeared, as Checkers stood meditatively surveying a fine old apple tree, from which a large limb, hanging heavy with fruit, had been blown during the night. "Thar," snorted the old man as he came up; "thar ye go, with yer dog-durned laziness. If you 'd o' propped that limb weeks ago, as you 'd ought t' done, you 'd o' saved me a couple o' barrels o' apples--Shannons, too. It's high time I was takin' a holt here myself. Git the saw and the grafting-wax." Checkers obeyed, and stood apathetically watching Mr. Barlow minister to the tree's necessity. "Now," said the old man, when at last he had finished, "come and set in the shade; I want to have a talk with ye;" and he led the way around to the doorstep. Both sat down. The old man drew a plug of "Horseshoe" from his pocket, and cut off a liberal piece, which he chewed into a comfortable consistency before beginning. "Now, boy," he said, "luck's ben a-comin' mighty hard for you and me these last few weeks, and I ain 't a-sayin' it's over yit for both o' us." Checkers made no response.