There was an old sharp wedge to the story. Dreve's sweetheart had died--the loss twisting him to the point almost of insanity. He had climbed this mountain, it was said, and remained for three days, until the town began to search. The marshal had found him sitting up there, where the shack is now. Dreve was quiet and normal, but confessed himself hungry. He had returned to the mountain soon afterward, and built his cabin. In six months, Dreve was all changed over. He seemed to have a new body and new mind. "You said he's here four days a week," I suggested. "Yes, he goes to the city. He has a good business, but has mastered it to the point that several younger men can run it. Dreve only gives two or three days a week to business affairs, though he has been a great worker----" "He's up there now?" I asked. "Yes." "Does he mind strangers?" "Not your kind." I thanked him, and added, "Tell me--he means a lot to you, doesn't he?" "All a man could," said the boy. "I'm going back now." * * * * * Dreve was middle-aged, clean-shaven, deep-eyed. Time had been driven to truce in his case. His face showed many battles, but when he spoke, a kind of new day dawned and you looked into the face of a boy. I remained with him three days. We talked of the new magic in the training of children. We talked of the New Age and the great song of joy and peace that would break across the world when troops turned home. Dreve had _something_. He seemed to breathe something out of the air that other men's lungs aren't trained for. He seemed to have _within_ everything necessary for a human being, including vision and humour and a firm grasp of the world. He was at peace about God and the world; at peace also about death. Slowly it dawned upon me that this man had walked arm in arm with life to the last abyss, and that life had been forced to confess that she had nothing worse to offer, whereupon the two had become fast friends. When a man can sit tight and lose everything he formerly wanted in the sense of world possessions; when he has winnowed the last shams out of the things called _fame_ and _convention_ and _society_; when he has lost the woman who means all the world to him, and still loves her memory and her soul better than the living presence of any other woman; when he has come to realise that death contains everything he wants, yet is content to wait for it--the idea of hell becomes a boyish thing to be put away, and Lucifer returns to his old place as a Son of the Morning. We stood together in the noon sun. Dreve did not even wear a hat.