“I was arrested and locked up, and the following day committed to the Tombs without bail to await the result of the injuries upon the man whom I had attacked. Then came remorse--awful, sincere remorse--for the life I had led and the hearts I had broken. “My father, ever loving, ever sympathetic, came to console me. Again he called me his poor, erring boy, as he placed his arm around my shoulders, and tears, in spite of his effort to conceal them, wet his cheeks. “I’ll not go into detail, or describe the agonizing weeks that followed. The man recovered. I was tried for my offense, and in view of the fact that I had never before been called before a court of justice, was sentenced to but one year in the penitentiary. “On the day sentence was pronounced my mother died; killed, of course, by her boy’s disgrace. When my father returned from the funeral he resigned his pastorate. He could no longer stand before his congregation, and the congregation did not wish to retain the services of a minister whose son was a jail bird. Six months later he followed my mother. All that he had loved and lived for had been taken from him. “Well, I served my sentence, and when I was released I came here. I had but one thought--to hide myself from the world. I could not stay in New York and disgrace my sister and her husband with my presence. I was truly penitent, but I realized that the world would not believe that. My presence would ever bring up the past. “Here in the open I have been drawn closer and closer to the God my father and mother loved and worshiped. Since that awful night I have never tasted liquor. I have tried to live in rectitude, and so far as I can to atone for the past. “I have never written my sister, for I wished her to forget the disgrace. She never knew what became of me when I left prison. She probably thinks me dead, and I have had no means of hearing from her. “My violin has been my constant companion. Every evening when I am here I play to Father and Mother and Helen. I always see them when I play. I always see the dear old living room at home, Father in his easy chair, Mother sewing, and Helen at her piano playing a soft accompaniment.” No one spoke for a long time. Then Ahmik rose and refilled the stove. Amesbury drew his ungainly frame together, strode to the door and stepped out. Presently he returned singing: “‘Come, let’s to bed, Says Sleepy-head.’ “It’s bedtime, fellows, and I know you’re tired. I’d take one of you in with me, but my bed is pretty narrow, and I’m afraid you wouldn’t be comfortable. Sleeping bags are pretty good, though. Paul, you have one already. Here’s one for you, Dan,” and Amesbury drew a warm sleeping bag from a chest. He was his whimsical, good-natured, normal self again.