Then Barney turned, and Thomas started back at the sight of his face. "I can't help it," he said. "Can't help it, you--" "I can't, before God, Thomas." "Why not?" Barney raised his right hand and pointed past Thomas. "You--met--Royal Bennet just--now," he gasped, hoarsely. Thomas nodded. "You--saw--his--back?" "Yes." "Well, something like that ails me. I--can't help it--before God." "You don't mean--" Thomas said, and stopped, looking at Barney's back. "I mean that's why I can't--help it." "Have you hurt your back?" Thomas asked, in a subdued tone. "I've hurt my soul," said Barney. "It happened that Sunday night years ago. I--can't get over it. I am bent like his back." "I should think you'd better get over it, then, if that's all," Thomas Payne said, roughly. "I--can't, any more than he can." "Do you mean your back's hurt? For God's sake talk sense, Barney!" Thomas cried out, in bewilderment. "It's more than my back; it's me." Thomas stared at Barney; a horror as of something uncanny and abnormal stole over him. Was the man's back curved, or had he by some subtle vision a perception of some terrible spiritual deformity, only symbolized by a curved spine? In a minute he gave an impatient stamp, and tried to shake himself free from the vague pity and horror which the other had aroused. "Do you know that you are ruining the life of the best woman that ever lived?" he demanded, fiercely. Barney looked at him, and suddenly there was a flash as of something noble in his face. "Look here, Thomas," he said, brokenly, in hoarse gasps. "Last night I--went mad, almost, because--I thought--maybe you'd been to see--her. I--saw you coming down the hill. I thought--I'd die thinking of--you--with her. I can't tell you--what I've been through, what I've suffered, and--what I suffer right along. I know I ain't to be pitied. I know--there ain't any pity--anywhere for anything--like this. I don't pity--myself. But it's awful. If you could get a sight of it, you'd know." Again to Thomas Payne, looking at the other, it was as if he saw a pale agonized face staring up at him from the midst of a curved mass of deformity. He shuddered. "I don't know what to make of you, Barney Thayer," he said, looking away. "There's one thing--I want to say," Barney went on. "I think there's enough of a man left in me--I--think I've got strength enough to say it. She--ought to be happy. I don't want her--wasting her whole life--God knows--I don't--no matter what it does--to me. I--wish-- See here, Thomas. I know you--like her. Maybe she'll--turn to you. It seems as if she must. I hope you will--oh, for God's sake, be--good to her, Thomas!"