Up that deep fold which lay between the chieftain and his consort to the north ran the western way--a trail with no returning footprints; and the thought made his heart beat painfully, while a sense of the wonder and the terror of death came to him. He was going away as the wounded grizzly crawls to the thicket to die, unseen of his kind, even of his mate. To never return! To mount and mount, each league separating him forever from the mansion he had come to enjoy, the wife he loved better than his own life. "I cannot believe it," he whispered, "and yet I must make it so." Then he began to wonder, grimly, just when his heart would fail, just where it would burst like a rotten cinch. "Will it be on the train? Suppose I last to the coal-switch, then I must climb to the mine. Suppose I live to reach the mine, then what? Oh, well, 'tis easy to slip from the cliff." Meanwhile, out under the trees, the gardener was spading turf, the lawn-mower was purring briskly and as though no sentence of death had been passed upon the master of the place. In this Haney saw the world's action typified. The individual is of little value--the race alone counts. He shuffled down to meet the carriage at the gate, and Lucius helped him in before Bertha could reach him, and they drove off down the street so exactly in their usual way that Bertha was moved to say: "I don't believe it! I can't realize we're quitting this town to-morrow." "No more can I, but I reckon it's good-bye all the same--for me, anyhow. I despise meself for asking ye to go, darlin'--I _don't_ ask it. Stay you! I'm not demanding anything at all. 'Tis fitter for me to go alone. Stay on, darlin'--'twill comfort me to lave ye safe and happy here." She shook her head with quite as much determination as he. "No, Mart, my mind is made up--I know my job, and I'm going to muckle to it like a little lady, so don't fuss." The air was beautifully clear and bracing, and a minute later Haney remarked, sadly: "I reckon the doctor knows his trade, but 'tis bitter nonsense to me when a man says the murky wind of the low country is better for a sick man than this." She was very tender at heart as she replied: "I'm afraid he's right, Mart. I could see you weren't so well here; but I was selfish--I tried to argue different. You'll be better down below, that's dead certain." "Well, the bets are all laid and the wheel spinning. I'm ready to take me exile--but I hate to drag ye down with me." "Don't worry about me," she answered, with intent to reassure him. "To be honest, I kind o' like the East." At the door of Ben's office building she got out, leaving him in the carriage. As she looked back at him from the doorway something which seemed like anguish in his face moved her, and she returned to the wheel to say, "Never mind, Mart, we'll buy a new home down there." He was struggling as if with the pangs of death, but he said, "'Tis childish, I know, but I hate to say good-bye to it all."