"Drusy, I ain't treated you well,--but you'll forgive me?" He spoke slowly and painfully, making the most of his feeble breath. "It's all over now, 'n' there's a little property left fur you. Squire Carter, down home, 'll tell you about it. It's in his hands." "Oh, Seth," sobbed Drusy, "I have been wrong too. I wasn't half so patient 'n' forbearing as I ought to have been. I laid up things against you that I ought to have forgot. Forgive me." He smiled, holding her hand with a faint pressure, then closed his eyes wearily and seemed to be sleeping. Drusy choked down her sobs and watched him almost breathlessly. His breath grew fainter and fainter; he was quiet now, and seemed at peace. The wind died away. The dawn marched, like some still procession, carrying flickering torches, into the woods. Tiny shafts of flame shot through the dark pine branches. There was a bustle and rustle as of light, hurrying feet. The clear clarion of the cocks sounded from distant clearings. And with the first rays of the sun the soul of the sick man departed into the Unknown. "Ain't there nothin' I kin do fur ye 'baout the funeril, Drusy, or kerryin' news tew the mourners?" said Barker, as he was about to leave her at the door of the "tahvern," toward noon of the same day. "No, thank ye, John; you're as kind as a brother; but his folks will attend to all these things. The doctor's notified them already. His father and two brothers are living down to Greenbush." "Then I'll bid you good-by. I don't know when I shell see ye ag'in, Drusy." Hastening back to his own camp, he told the overseer that he must find another man to take his place in the gang; and, another being at hand who was ready to take it, he started the very next morning on his way down the frozen Penobscot. "I must put a good many more'n fifteen miles between us, or I can't stan' it," he said to himself. "She'll merry Reube in a year er tew, 'n' I won't never see her face ag'in. I warn't never superstitioned afore, but when we was a-playin' them cards in that blarsted old camp I felt how 'twas all a-goin' tew turn eout; as plain as A B C." * * * * * Four years passed away. Lake and river were unlocked by the spring rains and sunshine, and then locked again by the winter frosts. Axes rang in the pine woods, great logs went floating down the stream. Life at the settlement jogged on in the same old fashion. The lumbermen came out of the woods and flirted and frolicked with the girls and sat about the "tahvern" fire in the long evenings. The few festivals were carried on with the same old zest. It was a bright afternoon. Drusy, who was still the hired girl at the tavern, in spite of the "little property" her husband had left her, was all alone in the kitchen, sitting pensively before the glowing stove. She was little changed, save for a shade more of sadness in her eyes and a somewhat fainter and more flickering fire upon her cheek.