"Ah, it's not worth while," agreed the old man quickly. "It's not worth while for any of us to be hard on one another, no matter what the facts. Life is pretty difficult, at its best--we can't afford to make it more difficult for any human soul. Go back to town and make it right with your friend, Mr. Burnett. I take it he was your friend, or you wouldn't think of him to-night." "Was--and is!" declared Sam, with conviction. "He's got to be, whether he wants to or not. But he'll want to--I know that well enough. We've been friends from boyhood--we'd just forgotten it, that's all." There was a little pause. The old man sat with his white head leaning against the high back of his chair, his face upturned, his eyes--with an appeal in them--resting first upon the face of Asa Fraser, then upon that of George Tomlinson. With a common impulse, William Sewall and Samuel Burnett moved aside together, turning their backs upon the three. Asa Fraser lifted his eyes and met those of George Tomlinson. With a palpable effort--for he was a man of few words--he spoke. "George," said he, "I guess I made a mistake, thinking as I did." "Asey," responded Tomlinson quickly, "I guess you weren't the only one that's made a mistake." And he held out his hand. Fraser grasped it. With his other hand he raised his handkerchief and blew his nose once more, violently--and finally. From this point the smile in his eyes usurped the place of the moisture which had bothered him so unwontedly, and put it quite to rout. If you imagine that this little drama had escaped the attention of the departing congregation, headed the other way, you are much mistaken. The congregation was not headed the other way. From the moment when Burnett, Fraser and Tomlinson had started toward the pulpit, the congregation, to a man, had paused, and was staring directly toward them. It continued to stare, up to the moment when the handshaking took place. But then--eyes turned and met other eyes. Hearts beat fast, lips trembled, feet moved. Unquestionably something had happened to the people of North Estabrook. Do you know how sometimes the ice goes out of a river? From shore to shore it has been frozen, cold and hard. For many months it has grown solid, deepening and thickening until it seems as if there could be no life left beneath. Then, at last, comes sunshine and rain and warmth. The huge mass looks as impenetrable as ever, but all at once, some day--crack!--the first thin, dark line spreads across the surface. Then--_crack, crack!_--_crack, crack!_--in every direction the ice is breaking up. Look quickly, now, if you would see that frozen surface stretching seamless between shore and shore--for suddenly dark lanes of water open up, which widen while you watch--and soon, incredibly soon, the river has burst its bonds and is rushing freely once more between its banks, with only the ever-diminishing blocks of melting ice upon its surface to tell the story of its long imprisonment.