He thought of that night when he had first visited this spot. How far in the past it seemed! He could never forget it, but he could think of it now in quiet of soul, and feel, "He doeth all things well." Reverently he laid the wreath on the grave, knelt in silent prayer, and tarried a moment with bowed head. Memories sweet and tender, memories sad and bitter, came back to him. Just then he heard a noise, a foot-fall opposite, and looked up to see a tall form supported by a crutch standing with bowed head. "Why, Dan!" Job said, startled for a moment. "Job!" answered a trembling voice. And there they stood, those two men whose lives met in the one under the sod; stood and looked in silence. At last Dan spoke. But how different his voice sounded! All the scornfulness had gone out of it. "Job," he said, "Job, I knew you were here. Many a night I have seen you come, have watched you kneeling here, and hated you for it--yet loved you for it. I knew you would come again to-night. I came to stand beneath that old pine yonder, and watched you lay the wreath on the grave. I could stand it no longer. I have come, Job--I have come--" and Dan, yes, Dan Dean, faltered!--"come to be forgiven. For years I have dogged your footsteps, hated you, persecuted you, lain in wait to ruin you. For this alone I have lived. God only knows--you don't--how bad I have been. But, Job, you are too much for me. The more I harm you, the nobler you grow. I have hated religion, but to-night I would give all I ever hope to own to have a little like yours. If religion can do for a fellow what it has for you, there is nothing in the world like it." A little nearer he came, as Job, hardly believing his ears, listened. "Job," he cried, "I don't deserve it, God knows! I have wronged you beyond all hope of mercy. But I must be forgiven, or I must die. You must forgive me. I cannot live another day with this awful feeling in my heart. I cannot sleep--I cannot work. I don't care whether I die or not, but I cannot go into eternity without knowing that you forgive me!" At last the tears came, and Dan sank, crutch in hand, beside Jane's grave. Job could not speak. For a moment, only the sound of a strong man's sobs and the hoot of an owl filled the air, then a passionate cry burst from Dan's lips: "Tell me, Job, tell me, is it possible for you to forgive?" For a moment Job faltered. He could see Trapper Bill pace the tepee and say, "Bill forgive Mono Indian;" he could hear the Master saying, "After this manner pray ye, Forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those who trespass against us;" and, kneeling and putting his arm about the quivering form, he whispered: "Dan, I forgive!" Long hours they stayed there, praying and talking, till Dan, grown quiet as a child, looked up with a strange, new expression, and said: "You forgive and God forgives! Oh, Job, this is more than I ever hoped for! I can hardly stand it!" * * * * *