Stephen passed a restless night, while Gibbs, shabby and dissipated, watched tenderly at his side; but in the morning he felt so much better that in spite of Gibbs's protests he insisted upon dressing, and went down-stairs. The following day he was able to leave the house, but he paid dearly for his imprudence. The fever returned and he went back to bed, he was again delirious, and the second day he passed in a semi-conscious state from which he only aroused at long intervals. Gibbs and Mrs. Gibbs and Arling watched him constantly. The doors of the Golden West Saloon were closed and locked, and the thirsty of Grant City going there, tried the door in vain, looked in at the window, and went sadly away. “He ain't showing any nerve, nor any wish to live!” wailed Gibbs. “He's sinking because he ain't trying to keep up! Unless he helps himself we can't do anything for him!” And it was as Gibbs said. Stephen now lacked both the inclination and the power to help himself; he faced the thought of death with indifference. This continued for a week. It was Gibbs who was with him when the end came. All at once Stephen roused himself from his lethargy and sat erect in his bed. “Gibbs!” he called hoarsely. “What is it, Steve—I'm here; don't you see me?” asked the general from his seat at his side, and he rested a shaking hand on the younger man's arm. “Take him to his aunt,” muttered Landray, “to his aunt, do you understand? I mean the boy—take him to his aunt, take him there first.” “Yes, yes, Steve, don't worry; I'll do just as you say,” cried Gibbs in a choking voice. “Do you hear me—he's to go back to Ohio,” gasped the dying man with painful effort. “She's all he has left. You'll take him there—as soon as you can;” and with that Landray fell back on his bed and spoke no more. CHAPTER FORTY GIBBS settled Stephen's affairs, and there was left in his hands a small sum of money, which, by dint of borrowing, he increased to a figure that enabled him to take the boy to Benson. The occasion was like a tonic to him, the buoyancy of a dauntless spirit spoke in his very air and manner; he forgot Grant City, the Golden West Saloon, his shabbiness; and his travelling companions learned early who he was, and to most ears, General Gibbs of Kansas, had a large sound. He reached Benson just at nightfall. The place had an unfamiliar aspect. A village had become a town, the town almost a city. He had expected changes, but he would have said that he could have found his way to what he had known years before as the Leonard farm in spite of any changes; yet again and again he was forced to pause and ask his way. Even when he reached the house itself he would not have known it. He paused at the gate and glanced about. Below him was the level valley of the Little Wolf River. It was dotted with rows of lights; they diverged or ran in parallel lines and marked streets, streets in what in his day had been the best corn-land in all the county.