I reached this spot to-day at noon, and sat down here to rest a bit before going down into the town to make assurance sure. Soon after, a party of children came up the hill with their sleds. When they saw me they ran, except one little lass of seven or eight. She stood still and looked at me, as if too scared to move. I know I am terrible to look at--I have seen my face in pools of water as I drank--but I would not fright the child, and I tried to make my voice gentle as I said: "Don't be scared, little one; I won't hurt you." Just then the sun came out of a cloud and struck across her face and hair. I cried out, I could not help it. It was Barbara's face and hair, but the eyes were _his_. "Stop!" I said, as the child started off. "What is your name?" "Barbara," she answered, and then: "If you are hungry," she said, "mamma will give you something to eat. We live down yonder in the brown cottage." I stared at her, shutting my teeth together. "Maybe papa would give you some money," she said again. "He is such a good man, my papa is." I burst into a laugh. The little lass's fear came back, and she turned and ran away. I have not moved from the spot since she left me. I have carefully cleaned and loaded the weapon I have carried so long--the instrument in my hand of God's vengeance. Before another sun rises it will be over. I sit and look at the cottage the child pointed out. I can see that it is neat and comfortable. The sun is going down, and the windows on this side are red as blood. So is all the snow between this place and that. I shall wait until night. I feel no fear, no remorse; and yet, if the child had not had _his_ eyes---- * * * * * Meanwhile the men who were waiting for Dixon's return became a little restive, as the minutes dragged along and he did not appear. Even those ready means of beguiling time common to men of their stamp--the telling of highly-seasoned and _apropos_ stories interspersed with frequent libations, began to pall. Some of them stole away to their neglected dinners, returning shortly with a renewed sense of wonder as they still found him absent. And the stark figure lay there in their midst, itself for the time forgotten in the stories and conjectures its presence had evoked, the faint smile frozen on its unshaven lips, the half-open eyes fixed seemingly upon the door with a terrible intentness. At last one of the men who was near a window overlooking the street, said: "He's comin'!" and a moment or two later, "I swear, he's paler'n the dead man his self!" "Mebbe it's his long-lost brother!" suggested the vagabond Shanks, who was given to pleasantries of this sort.