“Well,” whispered Toboso thoughtfully, “if the Elder now was forty years younger, I wouldn't want a better pardner.” They tiptoed out into the night. “But,” he continued, “looking at it that way, o' course he ain't got no great use for his wad and won't remember it till next week. Heeled all right, anyhow. Only, I says now, I says, there ain't no vice in him.” “Mammy tuck me up, no licks to-night,” said the Kid, plodding in front. “I ain't got nothing against him.” Boston Alley only fingered the bills in his pocket. It grew quite dark in the room they had left as the fire sunk to a few flames, then to dull embers and an occasional darting spark. The only sound was Father Wiliston's light breathing. When he awoke the morning was dim in the windows. He lay a moment confused in mind, then sat up and looked around. “Dear me! Well, well, I dare say Toboso thought I was too old. I dare say”--getting on his feet--“I dare say they thought it would be unkind to tell me so.” He wandered through the dusky old rooms and up and down the creaking stairs, picking up bits of recollection, some vivid, some more dim than the dawn, some full of laughter, some that were leaden and sad; then out into the orchard to find a bough apple in the dewy grasses; and, kneeling under the gnarled old tree to make his morning prayer, which included in petition the three overnight revellers, he went in fluent phrase and broken tones among eldest memories. He pushed cheerfully into the grassy road now, munching his apple and humming, “Hey, Jinny! Ho, Jinny!” He examined the tree at the highway with fresh interest. “How singular! It means an empty house. Very intelligent man, Toboso.” Bits of grass were stuck on his back and a bramble dragged from his coat tail. He plodded along in the dust and wabbled absent-mindedly from one side of the road to the other. The dawn towered behind him in purple and crimson, lifted its robe and canopy, and flung some kind of glittering gauze far beyond him. He did not notice it till he reached the top of the hill above Ironville with Timothy's house in sight. Then he stopped, turned, and was startled a moment; then smiled companionably on the state and glory of the morning, much as on Toboso and the card tricks of the Newark Kid. “Really,” he murmured, “I have had a very good time.” He met Timothy in the hall. “Been out to walk early, father? Wait--there's grass and sticks on your coat.” It suddenly seemed difficult to explain the entire circumstances to Timothy, a settled man and girt with precedent. “Did you enjoy it?--Letter you dropped? No, I haven't seen it. Breakfast is ready.” Neither Bettina nor Mrs. Timothy had seen the letter. “No matter, my dear, no matter. I--really, I've had a very good time.”