But thinking about it only seemed to bind his heart more closely than ever to the arid spot he called home. He had looked forward to spending all the remaining years of his broken, ruined life there, far from the world and from those who had known him in the past. Then a great desire had risen within him to remain near ’Lizabeth. He shrank from the thought of meeting her, speaking to her, and felt rather glad that she did not appear at church. A few times in passing he had caught a glimpse of her walking about the yard or garden in the winter sunshine, leaning on her crutch, and the sight had sent him on his way with downcast face. He had just sat down before the fire to smoke one evening when there came a timid knock on the door. It was just between daylight and darkness, and he supposed it to be some neighbor on his way to or from the store who wished to drop in to warm himself and gossip a little. "Come in," he said hospitably, and, reaching out, drew the other chair nearer the fire. The latch was slowly lifted, the door swung open, and then he started to his feet, pipe and tobacco falling to the floor, while his face flushed and paled, and his breath came in a sharp sigh. It was ’Lizabeth, her bonnet pushed back, her shawl hanging loosely around her shoulders. "I’ve be’n to the store for Marthy Ann, I wanted to go to get out away from the house a little while, and I thought I’d step in for a minute, ’Zeki’l, to see you." "You are tired; come an’ sit down," he said huskily, and led her to the chair. [Illustration: "DO YOU THINK YOUR LAMENESS WOULD MAKE ANY DIFFERENCE?"] What emotion those simple, commonplace words covered! They looked at each other, silently noting the changes time and sorrow had wrought. They had never been openly declared lovers, but words were not needed for them to understand each other, and they knew that they would marry when she had finished her term as teacher in the county school, and he had built a house on the lot of land his father had given him. But that shameful, undenied accusation of horse-stealing, followed swiftly by trial and conviction, had put an end to all hopes, all plans. "You see I’m a cripple now, ’Zeki’l," she said, to break the silence. "An’ I’ve grown old," he replied, and their eyes met again in a long, eloquent, steadfast gaze, and they knew that neither age, nor affliction, nor shame, nor separation had wrought any change in their love. It had only grown stronger and deeper. Her thin face flushed, her trembling fingers gathered up a fold of her gown. "Why don’t you come to see us, ’Zeki’l?"