And there, for a week, the stricken partner lay, unconscious of aught but the visions wrought by disease and fear. On the eighth day, at sunrise, he rallied, and, opening his eyes, looked upon York, and pressed his hand; then he spoke:-- “And it's you. I thought it was only whiskey.” York replied by taking both of his hands, boyishly working them backward and forward, as his elbow rested on the bed, with a pleasant smile. “And you've been abroad. How did you like Paris?” “So, so. How did YOU like Sacramento?” “Bully.” And that was all they could think to say. Presently Scott opened his eyes again. “I'm mighty weak.” “You'll get better soon.” “Not much.” A long silence followed, in which they could hear the sounds of wood-chopping, and that Sandy Bar was already astir for the coming day. Then Scott slowly and with difficulty turned his face to York, and said,-- “I might hev killed you once.” “I wish you had.” They pressed each other's hands again, but Scott's grasp was evidently failing. He seemed to summon his energies for a special effort. “Old man!” “Old chap.” “Closer!” York bent his head toward the slowly fading face. “Do ye mind that morning?” “Yes.” A gleam of fun slid into the corner of Scott's blue eye, as he whispered,-- “Old man, thar WAS too much saleratus in that bread.” It is said that these were his last words. For when the sun, which had so often gone down upon the idle wrath of these foolish men, looked again upon them reunited, it saw the hand of Scott fall cold and irresponsive from the yearning clasp of his former partner, and it knew that the feud of Sandy Bar was at an end. MR THOMPSON'S PRODIGAL