“He’s dead.” “Lawson _dead_! Not Lawson?” Her dry lips illy formed the words. “Yes, Dosia—don’t look like that—don’t let them see in there, Girard is looking at you; turn your face toward me. Leverich told us, coming up to-night. Lawson died a week ago.” “How?” “Fell from his horse somewhere up in a cañon—he was drunk, I reckon. They found him twenty-four hours afterwards; the superintendent of the mines wrote to Leverich. He’d tried to keep pretty straight out there, all but the drinking, I guess that was too much for him. It was the best thing he could do—to die—as Girard says. Girard hates the very sound of his name.” “Oh,” breathed Dosia painfully. “The superintendent said that some of the miners chipped in to bury him, and the woman he boarded with sent a pencil scrawl along with the superintendent’s letter to say that she’d ‘miss Mr. Barr dreadful,—that he’d get up and get the breakfast when she was sick, and the kids, they thought the world of him.’ She signed herself, ‘A true mourner, Mrs. Wilson.’” Lawson was dead! Dosia sat there, her hand clasping Billy’s sleeve as at first—something tangible to hold on to. Her gaze had gone far beyond the room, even that haunting knowledge that Bailey Girard was near her was but a far, hidden subconsciousness. She was out on a rocky slope beside a dead body—Lawson, his head thrown back, those mocking, caressing eyes, those curving, passionate lips, closed forever, the blood oozing from between his dark locks. Always she had secretly visioned some distant day when, Lucile-like, she might be near him, helping, though he would not know it until he lay dying. As ever with poor Dosia, there was that sharp, unbearable pang of self-reproach, of self-condemnation. Of what avail her prayers, her belief in him, when he had died thus? Oh, she had not prayed enough! She had not been good enough to be allowed to help; she had not believed hard enough. Perhaps it had helped just a little—he had “tried to keep pretty straight, all but the drinking; that was too much for him.” That covered some resistance in an under-world of which she knew nothing. Poor Lawson, who had so early lost his chance, whose youth had been poisoned at the start! In that grave where he lay, drunkard and reveler, part of the youth of her, Dosia Linden,—once his promised wife, to whom she had given herself in her soul,—must always lie too, buried with him; nothing could undo that. To die so causelessly! But the miners had “chipped in” for a resting-place for him—they had cared a little; he had been kind to a woman and her little children—“the kids had thought the world of him”; she was “a true mourner, Mrs. Wilson.” Dosia imagined him cheeringly cooking for this poor, worn-out mother, carrying the children from place to place as she had once seen him carry that little boy home from the ball, long, long ago.