“I was an artist,” said Harned. “I loved my art. I was happy. I had begun to make reputation and money when the devil sent him my way. He was an amateur photographer; that’s how we got acquainted. When he found I could sing and mimic voices he was wild over me, flattered me, petted me, taught me all kinds of fool habits; ruined me, body and soul, with his friendship. Well, he’s dead; and God knows she wasn’t worth a man’s life; but he did treat me mean about her, and when I flew at him he jeered at me, and he took advantage of my being a little fellow and struck me and cuffed me before them all; then I went crazy and shot him!” He stopped, out of breath. Wickliff mused, frowning. The man at his mercy pleaded on, gripping those slim, roughened hands of his hard together: “It ain’t quite so bad as you thought, is it, Mr. Wickliff? For God’s sake put yourself in my place! I went through hell after I shot him. You don’t know what it is to live looking over your shoulder! Fear! fear! fear! Day and night, fear! Waking up, maybe, in a cold sweat, hearing some noise, and thinking it meant pursuit and the handcuffs. Why, my heart was jumping out of my mouth if a man clapped me on the shoulder from behind, or hollered across the street to me to stop. Then I met my wife. You need not tell me I had no right to marry. I know it; I told myself so a hundred times; but I couldn’t leave her alone with her poor old sick father, could I? And then I found out that—that it would be hard for her, too. And I was all wore out. Man, you don’t know what it is to be frightened for two years? There wasn’t a nerve in me that didn’t seem to be pulled out as far as it would go. I married her, and we hid ourselves out here in the wilderness. You can say what you please, I have made her happy; and she’s made me. If I was to die to-night, she’d thank God for the happy years we’ve had together; just as she’s thanked Him every night since we were married. The only thing that frets her is me giving up photography. She thinks I could make a name like Wilson or Black. Maybe I could; but I don’t dare; if I made a reputation I’d be gone. I have to give it up, and do you suppose that ain’t a punishment? Do you suppose it’s no punishment to sink into obscurity when you know you’ve got the capacity to do better work than the men that are getting the money and the praise? Do you suppose it doesn’t eat into my heart every day that I can’t ever give my boy his grandfather’s honest name?—that I don’t even dare to make his father’s name one he would be proud of? Yes, I took his life, but I’ve given up all my chances in the world for it. My only hope was to change as I grew older and be lost, and the old story would die out—” “It might; but you see he had a mother,” said Wickliff; “she offers five thousand—” “It was only one thousand,” interrupted Harned.