A man was half sitting, half lying, on the grassy bank of the stream, supported by a pile of balsam boughs. His long body, in its worn, patched clothing, was pitifully emaciated. His face was ghastly, and deeply marked with the sad lines that grief alone can trace. His hair was white, and yet, somehow, he did not seem aged, except by suffering. He opened his eyes as the young doctor bent over him. There was the pathetic look in them of an animal that had received its death-wound. But as the light of consciousness returned there was resentment in his glance as well as pain. He looked like a man who had been pushed to the edge of despair, but who could still fight, not in hope, but in fierce anger against his lot. "He must be moved to some house at once," the doctor announced after a brief examination. "He seems to be suffering from exhaustion and hunger." Old Hughie Cameron was fussing about him, making inarticulate, pitying remarks. "Oh, yes, yes, he will jist be coming with me, then," he cried eagerly. "The Cameron door will always be on the latch indeed! Oh, yes, the folks will be real pleased, whatefer." The sick man looked up suddenly and spoke with unlooked-for strength. "I will accept charity from no living man," he said curtly. "Hoots, toots!" cried Uncle Hughie, in gentle remonstrance. "Charity! It would jist be a bit of a neighborly act, man! Come away, now, come." His voice was coaxing. "Here is the doctor, now, waiting to help you. Yes, yes, a fine new doctor, indeed," he added enticingly. "Come," said Gilbert authoritatively. "You must have food and shelter at once. You can't stay here." The man opened his eyes again. "I haven't a cent of money," he said weakly, but defiantly. "But if you will take me to some place I can rent, I will earn money and pay for it after. But I will enter no man's house. I will stay here and die--it would be best, anyway." He closed his eyes indifferently. Old Hughie suddenly plucked the puzzled young doctor's sleeve. "There will be an old shanty down the glen here, a wee step," he whispered, "jist by the Drowned Lands. It belongs to Sandy McQuarry, but he would be giv----" He paused, for the fierce eyes opened upon him--"renting it," he substituted hastily. "I will go there," whispered the sick man, and Gilbert stooped and raised him gently. "And what will your name be?" asked Uncle Hughie, striving in his pity to say something friendly which this strange man would not resent. "My name," said the man slowly, "my name"--he stood and looked about him in a dazed way--"yes, yes, it's McIntyre--John McIntyre." He wavered a moment, then fell, fainting, in the young doctor's arms. CHAPTER IV THE ORPHAN ARRIVES