It was one of Dealing's habits to say his prayers at night on retiring, and when he had disrobed he knelt by his bedside. But somehow the words failed to come as readily as had been their wont; he was trying to pray for the relief of his sister, but reason kept telling him that it was a futile appeal. God had not hindered the approach of the calamity; why should mere human appeal immediately lift it? So he said his “Amen” sooner than usual, and with a brain hot over the memory of Walton's looks and words, he rolled and tossed on a sleepless bed till far into the night. CHAPTER V |WHEN Fred Walton left Dearing's office, he went along the street toward his father's home. He walked slowly, absolute despair showing itself in the droop of his powerful body, and in the helpless, animal glare of his eyes. He had reached a point from which, the street being on a slight elevation, he could see the old house in which he was born. He paused. All about him was peace, stillness, and incongruous content. The town clock, capping the brick stand-pipe of the waterworks, struck nine solemn strokes, and he could feel the after-vibrations of the mellow metal as the sound died away. He turned, leaving his home on the left, and walked on aimlessly till the houses which bordered the way became more scattered, and then he reached a bridge which spanned a little river. A full moon was rising. Through the foliage of the near-by trees it looked like a world of fire away off in space. Its red rays fell on the swiftly rushing water, throwing on its surface a path of flaming blood. He went out on the structure, and leaned against the iron railing. Just beyond the end of the bridge rose a green-clad hill. It had a high fence around it, and a wide gateway with a white, crescent-shaped sign above it. It was the Stafford cemetery. “Yes, I ought to see it once more before I go,” he said. “It will be the last time--the very last; and surely, though I'll blush in her dead presence, _thief_ as _I_ am, I ought to go.” He crossed to the other side, and went into the gate of the enclosure. Threading his way among the monuments, his brow reverently bared to the solemn moonlight, he came to a square plot surrounded by an ivy-coated brick wall with a granite coping. It contained several graves bearing his name, but only one engaged his attention. He sat down on its footstone, and, with his head still bare, he remained motionless for a long time.