As they entered the house, both Major Welch and Ruth stopped on the threshold, with an exclamation. Before them stretched one of the most striking halls Ruth had ever seen. At the other end was an open door with a glimpse of green fields and blue hills in the distance; but it was the hall itself that took Ruth’s eye. And it was the picture of the man in the space just over the great fireplace that caught Major Welch. The “Indian-killer” again stood before him. Clad in his hunter’s garb, with the dark rock behind him, his broken rifle at his feet, his cap on the back of his head, and his yellow hair pushed from under it, his eyes fastened on Major Welch with so calm and yet so intense a look that Major Welch was almost startled. That figure had suddenly obliterated the years. It brought back to him vividly the whole of his former visit. Ruth, impressed by the expression of her father’s face, and intensely struck by the picture, pressed forward to her father’s side, almost holding her breath. “I see you’re like most folks, ma’am; you’re taken first thing with that picture,” said Still; then added, with a half laugh, “and it’s the only picture in the batch I don’t really like. But I jist mortally dislikes that, and I’d give it to anybody who’d take it down from thar, and save me harmless.” He went off into a half reverie. The Major was examining the frame curiously. He put his finger on a dim, red smear on the bottom of the frame. Memory was bringing back a long train of recollections. Hardly more than ten years before, he had stood on that same spot and done the same thing. This hall was thronged with a gay and happy and high bred company. He himself was an honored guest. His gracious host was standing beside him, telling him the story. He remembered it all. Now—they were all gone. It was as if a flood had swept over them. These inanimate things alone had survived. He ran his hand along the frame. The voice of his host broke in on his reflections.