He looked up steadily into the sickly, discolored sky: nothing there but the fog from these swamps. He had not wished so much that he could hear of Martha and the children, when he looked up, as of something else that he needed more. Even the foulest and most careless soul that God ever made has some moments when it grows homesick, conscious of the awful vacuum below its life, the Eternal Arm not being there. Yarrow was neither foul nor careless. All his life, most in those years in the prison, he had been hungry for Something to rest on, to own him. Sometimes, when his evil behavior had seemed vilest to him, he had felt himself trembling on the verge of a great forgiveness. But he could see so little of the sky in the cell there,--only that three-cornered patch: he had a fancy, that, if once he were out in the world that He made,--in the free air,--that, if there were a God, he would find Him out. He had not found Him. He sat on the stump awhile, his hands over his eyes, then got down slowly, buttoning his soggy waistcoat and coat. "I don't see as there's a chance," he said, dully. "I was a fool to think there was any better God than the one that"--digging his toe into the frozen pools. "It's all ruled. I'm not one of the elect." That was all. After that, he stood waiting for his brother. "I'll help him. He's the best I know." Even the faint sigh choked before it rose to his lips,--both manhood and hope were so dead with inanition; yet a life's failure went in it. While he stood waiting, Martha Yarrow sat by her kitchen-fire crying to God to help him; but He knew what things were needed before she asked Him. Soule, with his gun and game-bag, had been coursing over the hills three miles back, since four o'clock. He had bagged a squirrel or two, enough to suffice for his morning's work, and now, his piece unloaded, came stealthily towards the place of rendezvous. He had little hope that Stephen would help him: he had made up his mind to go through the affair alone. If _he_ did it, that involved--Pah! what was in a word? Men died every day. He had quite resolved: Judith and he had talked the matter over all night. But if Frazier were a younger man, and could fight for it! Perhaps he was armed: Soule's face flashed: he stooped and broke the trigger of his gun, and then went on with a much less heavy step. They would be more even now. He wanted to reach the bridge by dawn, and meet his brother. If he refused to help him, he would send him away, and wait for Frazier alone. About nine o'clock he might expect him.