George recognized the voice and the form and said, "I'm George Clarke, and I'm your friend, Bill Bird." His hand was laid upon the shoulder of the sickened man, and in a kindly voice he persuaded him to accompany him to his home. "The place here is crowded, and we've got lots of room at our place and can give you a comfortable bunk for the night: come along, Bill, for old time's sake." Linking his arm in Bill's, he led the staggering man to the drive-shed, and after some difficulty and a few arguments, got him safely into his buggy, and not a soul in the place was the wiser. Mrs. Clarke was a worthy helpmeet for George, and though her household cares were many, she grudged no extra labour that would please her husband and help a fellow-being. And so everything necessary for the comfort of the fallen man had been done. A supper had been prepared, and the guest-room made ready. Bill ate as freely as his condition would allow, and then very willingly acted on the suggestion that he should "creep in." George gave the dirty, tired, whiskey-soaked man such assistance as he felt would be advisable. Once Bill raised his heavy eyelids and appeared to be trying to understand the "why" of things. "This is no place for me, George Clarke--by God, no!" The body wobbled wearily, and Bill could think and talk no more. And so with most of his clothes on, filthy from his stay in the snake-room, Bill Bird was placed in the best bed in the best room of one of the truest homes with which the district was blessed. Before retiring himself, George Clarke went to a wicker-basket in the parlour, and searched through the family collection of photographs. At last he found the one he sought. It was of the Bird family, and was taken shortly before the oldest boys went West. George took it out to his wife, who was still working in the kitchen. Pointing to the face of a bright manly boy who stood with hand upon his mother's shoulder, he said to his wife, "If Bertois and his gang changed a boy's face as terribly as Bill's has been changed, and did it in a few minutes, they would be sent to the 'pen' for five years, and yet we let that same gang take their time on the job, and do it in hundred lots, and scarcely raise so much as a finger to stop it--and I'm as guilty as the rest of them. Poor Bill! he used to be as decent a little chap as you could find in the County of Addington." The photograph was returned to the parlour, and dropped somewhat carelessly upon the table, but the unthinking, and yet perhaps not unguided act was the first of many influences that brought better days to Bill Bird. Long into the morning the occupant of the guest-room slept on. George Clarke had opened the door quietly at breakfast time, but the heavy breathing caused him to leave the wearied man undisturbed. About the middle of the forenoon, after much yawning and stretching, Bill's consciousness slowly returned.