“She didn't know the son she used to be so proud of would ever come to this,” he said, bitterly. “With all her hopes and prayers, she little knew that I'd be an outcast--actually forced to flee from the law; she little dreamed it would come to that when she used to talk of the great and good things I was to do. Poor, dear, little mother! You'd rather be dead than alive to-night. I wonder if it is _absolutely too late?_ Perhaps, far away, under a new name and among strangers, I may be able to live differently. And if I could, she would know and be glad. Mother, listen, dear!” A sob rose in him, and shook him from head to foot. “The wrong I did was done when my brain was turned by liquor, and I did not realize my danger till it was too late; I swear here--right here--to you, dear little mother, that from this moment on I'll try to be better. I may fail, but I'll try. I swear, too, that from this moment on I'll bend every energy of my soul and body to the undoing of the thing of which I am guilty.” He stood up. Ten solemn strokes of the town clock rang out on the profound stillness. The air was vibrant with a myriad insect voices from the marshes along the river. Rays of lamplight shot across the shrubbery between the shafts and the slabs of stone. They came from a window in the cottage of the sexton of the cemetery. The lone visitor saw a shaggy head of hair, a long, ragged beard the color of the clay beneath the soil, and a rugged face, gashed and seamed by time. The old man was smoking--placidly smoking. Even a humble digger of graves could be content, while this young, vigorous soul was steeped in the dregs of despair. Walton turned away, slowly retraced his steps to the outside, crossed the river, and, careful to avoid meeting any one, he finally came again to his father's house. It was dark. “I might get in at a window and bring away a few things to wear,” he reflected. “But no, I must not risk it. He might meet me face to face and demand the truth. I'd have to tell him. Sharp of sight, and suspicious as he now is, he would read it in my face, and order my arrest. Yes, he would do it. He is my father, but he would do it.” On he went, now headed for the square. Reaching the bank, the thought occurred to him that, having a key, he would go in and write a note to his father. A moment later he had locked himself within the stifling place, and under a flaring gas-jet, and seated on the high office-stool at a desk, he wrote as follows: