Annoyed by the fact that a halt had been called in my errand of self-destruction, I began to ask myself why. The only answer that came to me was that this old man, this old reprobate, if one chose to call him so, cared for me. He had been giving me an affection that prompted him to the most vital sacrifice, to the most difficult kind of self-control. Then suddenly that truth came back to me which Andrew Christian had pointed out a few months earlier, and which in the mean time had grown dim, that any true love is of God. I was startled. I was awed. In saying these things I am trying only to tell you what happened in my inner self; and possibly when a man’s inner self has plumbed the depths like mine it means more to him to get a bit of insight than it does to you who have always been on the level. In any case this question rose within me: Was it possible that out of this old man, this drunkard, this murderer, cast off by his children, cast out by men, some feeble stream was welling up toward me from that pure and holy fountain that is God? Was it possible that this strayed creature had, through what he was giving me—me!—been finding his way back to the universal heart? If ever a human being had been dwelling in love he had been dwelling in it for a year and more; and there were the words, distilled out of the consciousness of the ages, and written for all time, “He that dwelleth in love dwelleth in God.” Was it God that this poor, purblind old fellow had all unconsciously been bringing me, shedding round us, keeping us straight, making us strong, making us prosperous, helping us to fight our way upward? I went back. But on the way I had another prompting—one that took me into the office of a tourist company to consult time-tables and buy tickets. “Lovey,” I said, when I got home, “we must both begin packing for all we’re worth. We’re leaving for Montreal to-night.” “Goin’ to see your people, Slim, and stay in that swell hotel?” “Not just now, Lovey. Later, perhaps. First of all we’re going for a month into the woods north of the Ottawa.” His jaw dropped. “Into the woods?” “Yes, old sport. You’ll like it.” “Oh no, I won’t, Slim. I never was in no woods in my life—except London and New York. There’s one thing I never could abide, and that’s trees.” “You won’t say that when you’ve seen real trees. We’ll shoot and fish and camp out—” “Camp out? In a tent, like? Oh, I couldn’t, sonny! I’d ketch me death!” “Then if you do we’ll come back; only, we’ve got to go now.” “Why have we? It’s awful nice here in New York; and I don’t pay no attention to people that says it’s too hot.” I made the appeal which I knew he would not resist. Laying my hand on his shoulder, I said: “Because, old man, I’m—I’m in trouble. I want to get away where—where I sha’n’t see—some one—again—and I need you.” “It ain’t that girl, Slim? She—she haven’t turned you down?”