"He was always that a way!" declared another. "They's men as can't look at a corpse without turnin' white around the gills, an' Dixon's one on 'em! I've seen him a-fore. An' he ain't no coward, neither!" "No! _He_ ain't no coward!" chorused the others, and a moment or two later Dixon pushed open the door and came in. Every man's eye was drawn to his face, but he saw no one. He looked straight before him into space. "Buckey," he said, addressing that worthy in one of his many capacities, that of undertaker, "I knew this--man. Make arrangements to have the--the body brought to my house, at once, and to have the funeral from there to-morrow morning." He paused a moment, a kind of click in his throat, and then added, "Let every man and woman who knows me be present." He turned and went out, and they saw him, with his head sunk on his breast, walking homeward. At the appointed hour the small front room of Dixon's cottage was filled with men and women, drawn thither in part through deference to his expressed desire, in part through curiosity excited by the rumors which had filled the air since the day before. The body of the stranger, now shrouded and coffined, rested upon a bier in the centre of the room. At its head sat the minister of the one church of which the town could boast. The people were very silent, even more so than the occasion seemed to warrant, but they studied each other's faces furtively, as if each sought in the other some clue to the mystery which was to himself impenetrable. They were plain, hard-working people, and, for the most part, decent, law-abiding citizens. The man in whose house they were assembled had been with them for years. What he had been before he came among them they had never asked. It may be that some of them had something in their own past they would fain have forgotten. He had won their respect and confidence, and in time their affection, for, as has been said, he was generous, brave and helpful. He had been their chosen leader. They had honored him with such small honors as they had to bestow, and as his reputation as a political writer and speaker spread, other and higher honors were more than hinted at. To-day they were disturbed and restless, as if under the shadow of some impending change or calamity. They waited in a tense, constrained silence for what might happen. At length a door opened noiselessly and Dixon stood before them. A thrill ran through every breast as they saw him. A score of years might have passed over him, and not have wrought the change of this one night. The assured carriage, the look of strength and power and pride had vanished. The broad shoulders stooped. The hair was matted over his brow, the features pinched and livid. He let his eyes wander over the faces of those present a moment; then, in a strained, husky voice, began speaking.