All through the service the old fellow was silent, seemingly hearing no word of the sermon. The next day the missionary went to the "ink splasher" and inquired where the old man could be found. "That's Old Grouchy. He's the road monkey and you'll find him on the east road about this time of day," directed the clerk. "Good morning," was the greeting of the missionary as he came up to the road monkey. "Mornin'," answered Old Grouchy, in non-committal tones. "Your roads are in fine shape, almost perfect," said the missionary, sparring for an opening. "Bad, infernally bad," answered the road monkey. "Like the job?" asked the preacher to encourage conversation. "Yes, the way the damned like their lodgings," burst out Old Grouchy. "But what is it to you whether I like it or not? You can't change it." Before the preacher could make reply the little dog came out of the woods, where he had been in pursuit of a pine squirrel, and came to the minister for attention. It was a dog of many breeds, but the road monkey's eyes fell upon it lovingly and the minister saw the look. "A good friend of yours, I suppose," said the Sky Pilot. "The only friend I have," and the tone was soft and reflective. The minister knew that he had found the opening to the old man's heart and began to talk of his own dog team, the faithfulness and intelligence of the animals and the companionship they freely gave. Old Grouchy joined in the conversation and discussed with freedom the love he felt for the dumb creatures. From this they drifted to matters more personal until the whole story of the man's life was narrated and the cause of his cynicism was bared. It was a story of startling disappointment, of a home wrecked through unfaithfulness and broken trust. No man could hear the story and remain unsympathetic. "No wonder you see the world darkened," said the preacher; "if I had your experience I might feel as you do today." The missionary talked to the man and tried to lead him to the bright paths of peace, but nothing appealed to the sad soul of the lonely man. The gospel gave him no hope, the sun was set, and all was covered with the curtains of night. God to him was dead and in all the world the only love he knew was the dumb affection of the forlorn yellow dog. When Mr. Higgins went back to that camp in later days the road monkey would listen attentively to the presentation of the loving Christ and seemed to wonder if it were possible that God could care for him. "Sing, brother," said the missionary. But the old man only shook his head. He would not sing. Nay! he could not. His heart strings were withered; melody had left him through the unfaithfulness of woman. He had passed into the starless night where no glimmer of hope entered, and in his solitude he caressed his little dog and perhaps wondered if the great God cared, if any being was interested in him besides the faithful little animal.