“Surely, surely, take it down—Paul and I riding home from church found my wife struggling in the grip of that devil Sleeman—she defending herself with her hunting knife—seeing them I sprang for gun, hanging on the wall—the beast made a break for the door—my wife threw herself on me, catching my gun hand—in the struggle the gun went off—the gun fell on the floor—Paul grabbed it and very nearly did what I would have done. He’s a little better shot than I—glad he didn’t get him. That’s all. Paul saw everything. Paul! Listen! There must be no more of this—remember!” Paul started from the bedside where he had been kneeling and stood tense and rigid. “What, Daddy?” he said. “You know, Daddy, I must kill him. He deserves to be killed. It is right, Daddy.” The boy spoke quietly with the steady voice of a man set upon a simple and irrevocable duty. His father’s eyes rested with loving pride on his boy’s face for a moment or two. “Good boy!” he said, laying his hand on the boy’s shoulder. “Good boy! And you will be a good man—a better man than your father.” “Daddy! Don’t, Daddy!” The boy’s voice broke in a cry of pain. The Colonel’s head went down on the bed. “Steady, every one!” said the doctor in a strong, clear voice. “Don’t waste his strength.” It was the word needed for the moment. “Paul, my boy,” pleaded Gaspard. The boy stood, it seemed for minutes, his hands writhing, his burning eyes upon his father’s face, his lips closed in a thin white line. His father put out his hand to him. “You promise, Paul?” “A-a-ah!” A long-drawn sigh that seemed to carry in it the outgoing of his very soul came from Paul’s white lips. “Yes, Daddy. Oh! yes! I promise.” “Good boy! good boy!” whispered his father, drawing the boy down to him. “I knew! I knew!” For a long time no one spoke, for Gaspard lay as if exhausted, with eyes closed, voiceless and hardly breathing. After he had rested, Gaspard, always husbanding his strength under the doctor’s care, went over his affairs with the Colonel, turning over everything to his charge. “There should be something left from the wreckage, Pelham. Not enough, perhaps, but it will all go to Paul. Paul will take care of the others, won’t you, boy?” “Yes, Daddy, I will,” replied the boy, accepting without question a trust that was to determine for him the course of his life at more than one moment of crisis.