And Tim gives her a glance of his level eyes, reflecting in the wisdom of experience that here is crooked business to be done for his keep. "Sure," he answers in a way to inspire confidence, and the bargain being struck Molly says good night, and the guest is soon stretched in sleep on the couch. After a time the shadows move up closer to him, the fire flickering on the blackened log as the spirit clings to a body dying; the wind falls till only the deep breathing of the sleeper is heard, and the loud ticking of the clock--it strikes two with a crash, and Tim rouses. As an old campaigner he rises from sleep without recoil or startled look at the cloaked figure standing with ink and paper at the table in the center of the room. "Whist!" she says, and for a moment marvels at the nature of a boy who rises to the alarm in the middle of the night, awake and ready; the indifference with which he buttons his coat whilst hearing the snow he has just escaped snarl threateningly against the window. "Whist!" says Molly, hesitating to tell the reason for her coming at that hour, lest it shock or frighten him. But the bearing of the meager boy and the level glance of the untamable blue eyes once more assure her that he has not been sent here from beyond Turntable to fail her at extremity. "Y' understand, Timothy, that I am an old lady who may die any time--perhaps to-night, having such warning in the unsteady beating of my heart--and so I am come at once to explain matters and have you settle my affairs for me on earth. Do not be afraid----" "What of?" asks Tim. "First," resumes Molly eagerly, "I have planned to explain to you a moment--that 't is a duty I promised myself to do and have long neglected." "What is that?" asks Tim. "A duty? Why, the same as made me take you in this night." "How did it make you?" asks Tim, and listens with skepticism to her explanation. "'T will be the same with you, settling my affairs on earth," says Molly in conclusion; "if you promise to do it 't is then a duty, and of course you would not fail--through storm and hardship and fear, you would go----" "A duty," says Tim with reflection; "if you die you'll never know whether I 'tend to it." "Why, that would make no difference. You would 'tend to it because you promised. You would follow the Farthest Lantern, as I will explain presently." Queerly he looks round, studying the flicker of fire, the cozy room, even the clothes he is wearing; then the uplifted old face under the white hair with its expression of listening to things he cannot hear. "I promise," he says, and laughs in a fierce puzzled way--the only laugh ever heard from him. And he has forgotten and Molly has forgotten to name the price to be paid for his trouble. "Here is a pen you may fit in the broken holder," she says; "write what I cannot for the palsy in my hand. Now, as I tell you--'t is the letter of the Farthest Lantern--the lantern which beckons to duty."