He wet her face while he looked over at the wretch whose life he held in his hands. It was the iron rule of Holmes's nature to be just; but to-night dim perceptions of a deeper justice than law opened before him,--problems he had no time to solve: the sternest fortress is liable to be taken by assault,--and the dew of the coming morn was on his heart. "So as I've hunted fur him!" she whispered, weakly. "I didn't think it wud come to this. So as I loved him! Oh, Mr. Holmes, he's hed a pore chance in livin',--forgive him this! Him that'll come to-morrow'd say to forgive him this." She caught the old man's head in her arms with an agony of tears, and held it tight. "I hev hed a pore chance," he said, looking up,--"that's God's truth, Lo! I dunnot keer fur that: it's too late goin' back.--Mas'r," he mumbled, servilely, "it's on'y a little time t' th' end: let me stay with Lo. She loves me,--Lo does." A look of disgust crept over Holmes's face. "Stay, then," he muttered,--"I wash my hands of you, you old scoundrel!" He bent over Lois with his rare, pitiful smile. "Have I his life in my hands? I put it into yours,--so, child! Now put it all out of your head, and look up here to wish me good-bye." She looked up cheerfully, hardly conscious how deep the danger had been; but the flush had gone from her face, leaving it sad and still. "I must go to keep Christmas, Lois," he said, playfully. "Yoh're keepin' it here, Sir." She held her weak gripe on his hand still, with the vague outlook in her eyes that came there sometimes. "Was it fur me yoh done it?" "Yes, for you." She turned her eyes slowly around, bewildered. The clear evening light fell on Holmes, as he stood there looking down at the dying little lamiter: a powerful figure, with a face supreme, masterful, but tender: you will find no higher type of manhood. Did God make him of the same blood as the vicious, cringing wretch crouching to hide his black face at the other side of the bed? Some such thought came into Lois's brain, and vexed her, bringing the tears to her eyes: he was her father, you know. "It's all wrong," she muttered,--"oh, it's far wrong! Ther' 's One could make them 'like. Not me." She stroked her father's head once, and then let it go. Holmes glanced out, and saw the sun was down. "Lois," he said, "I want you to wish me a happy Christmas, as people do." Holmes had a curious vein of superstition: he knew no lips so pure as this girl's, and he wanted them to wish him good-luck that night. She did it, laughing and growing red: riddles of life did not trouble her childish fancy long. And so he left her, with a dull feeling, as I said before, that it was good to say a prayer before the battle came on. For men who believed in prayers: for him, it was the same thing to make one day for Lois happier. METHODS OF STUDY IN NATURAL HISTORY. IV.