“My sheep turned out wonderful; in five years money began to come in right fast, and I might have kep’ on an’ been a rich man by this time, if it hadn’t been that a man I knew came down that way about that time. I saw him first at the village, where I went to lay in a stock of provisions. He didn’t see me, but I heard him say he was goin’ to buy out a cattle ranch ten miles away, and that was enough to give me a scare and unsettle me. I feared I’d be recognized and seized as the murderer of my girl, and though life wa’n’t much to me with the heavy conscience and the grief I had to carry around with me all the time, yet, for the boy’s sake, I was bound to stick to it as long as I could—there was nobody else to take care of him, and I knew he’d fare hard without me. “The man who owned the ranch next to mine had offered to buy me out the year before, so I went to him and told him I’d made up my mind to go North and see if the doctors couldn’t do something for the boy, and if he’d take everything off my hands I’d sell out cheap. “He took me up quick as a wink, and in less than a week the money was in my pocket and the boy and me were on our way to New York. I bought a small farm just across the river in New Jersey. There was a good house and barn on it, and I stocked it well, hired a good strong woman to do the inside work and a man to help me outside, and then settled down to a quiet life; for I didn’t believe anybody would think of lookin’ for me there. “I took the name of ‘John Landers,’ and tried to make the boy call himself ‘George Landers’; but he didn’t know enough to learn it, and seemed to have forgotten how to talk at all; so I hadn’t much to fear from his lettin’ anything out. We lived here for almost five years more, and I got ahead a little every season. But, sir, the horror of that dreadful deed never left me for a minute. My Margery’s dead face was always before me, and my heart heavy with its load of guilt and loneliness. If ever a man paid for an evil deed in torment, I paid for mine a hundred times over. “But the worst of my troubles was yet to come. The world’s a small place to hide in when a man has committed a crime. I went to town one day on business, and stepped into the post-office—which was in the same buildin’ with the railway station—to send a letter for the woman at home, when I heard two men talking in a low tone of voice, and one of them spoke the name of Jack Henly. “My blood ran cold in a minute. My back was to them, for I was payin’ for the postage on the letter, and they hadn’t seemed to notice me. I didn’t hurry, frightened as I felt, but took my own time and listened.