Oh! the white, crushed, helpless, hopeless face that the shoemaker turned upon him. “Have you no mercy?” he whispered. And then Ernest Clare came swiftly towards him, and laid his strong hands upon the man’s shoulders. “My brother,” he said, and his voice shook with its weight of tenderness, “my brother, God is very merciful; even His vengeance is mercy. He will give you back your son, the boy whom your sin has slain. In his youth you taught him to follow Christ; in his young manhood he followed Him even unto death. Follow Him yourself, and you will find your boy again. There is no death to those who love the Lord.” “No death?” the tone was incredulous, yet it thrilled with a faint hope. “But even if—if all you say were true, it cannot—could not, help this longing, this terrible longing, to hear his voice again—only one word—to see him smile—oh, if he would but stir an eyelid or a finger,” cried Metzerott desperately, “it could not be so hard to bear—afterwards.” Ernest Clare’s eyes were full of tears. “Do I not know!” he said, “I who have buried father and mother, and kissed the dead lips of the woman I love. Yet even then, when the desire of mine eyes was taken away at a blow,—even then—I felt that in Christ Jesus is neither death nor separation. And now, though I long sore for their smiles, and my heart will hunger for the sound of their dear voices, they are far nearer to me than when they lived on earth; and when I meet them again it will be in the closeness of a union whereof this world hardly dares to dream.” For still a moment the strong, rugged nature held out; but, though blind to the beauty of the sun-ray, and cold to its genial warmth, it yielded to its death-dealing power. Suddenly turning, he fell upon his knees by the side of his son, with his face upon the wounded bosom. “Jesus Christ!” he cried, “Jesus Christ!” and broke into bitter sobbing; but when that fit was past he was as gentle as a little child. George Rolf was never more seen in Micklegard; but after many years Paul Kellar, then a prosperous Western farmer and long since married again,—Paul Kellar wrote of a strange, solitary miner, who had long been one of the mysteries of that wild region, and who, when he had bravely died in defending his “pile” from a gang of horsethieves, was recognized by Paul himself as George Rolf. From these things many suspected whose hand fired the fatal pistol; but why will always remain a mystery. “Prices” still flourishes; and Miss Sally, though in a ripe old age, has never laid down the reins of the kitchen department. It is believed that she is training Dora Kellar, who returned to Micklegard upon her father’s second marriage, to succeed her.