"Oh," he said, "isn't he a rotter? I didn't think he would do that." They were tramping in Colorado, he explained, and one night the other man told him of his mother. Peter, in the intimacy of the camp-fire, spoke of me. The revelation of the other's baseness was like the betrayal of some sacred rite. I would not have liked to be in the man's place when next they met, if they ever did. Some months passed, and then one day a message came from St. Joseph's Home: "I guess I am up against it this time." He did not want to trouble me, but would I come and say good-by? I went at once. Peter was dying, and he knew it. Sitting by his bed, my mind went back to our first meeting--perhaps his did too--and I said: "You have been real decent several times, Peter. You must have come of good people; don't you want me to find them for you?" He didn't seem to care very much, but at last he gave me the address in Boston of his only sister. But she had moved, and it was a long and toilsome task to find her. In the end, however, a friend located her for me. She was a poor Irish dressmaker, and Peter's old father lived with her. She wrote in answer to my summons that they would come, if Peter wanted them very much, but that it would be a sacrifice. He had always been their great trial--a born tramp and idler. Peter was chewing a straw when I told him. I had come none too soon. His face told me that. He heard me out in silence. When I asked if he wanted me to send for them, he stopped chewing a while and ruminated. "They might send me the money instead," he decided, and resumed his straw. KATE'S CHOICE