"Hello, you, Tim!" called the big man cordially, as the youngster came limping toward him, "what you been up to now?" The boy glanced around the group and placed himself as far as possible from Spectacle John. "Jist been fishin'," he remarked vaguely; "and I'm goin' with you," he added, with that mixture of defiance and appeal which the orphans had already learned was sure to move their foster-parents. "Ye'd better watch out! The banshee'll git ye," threatened Spectacle John. "Speakin' o' a banshee," put in the blacksmith, "when I was at Neeag'ra Falls----" By the time the story was finished the company had come in view of the old shanty. The sick man was seated in the doorway. His figure had a despairing droop, his eyes were fixed on the forest of dead tree-trunks. There was something of a corresponding dreariness in his whole attitude, as though the waters of tribulation had gone over his life and left it a veritable Drowned Land, its hopes engulfed, its greenness dead. The company fell silent as they passed through the bars that served as a gateway and went up the slope to the shanty door. So absorbed was the man in his reflections that he did not notice any one approaching until the minister's foot struck a stone. He turned sharply and arose. Mr. Scott had visited him twice as he lay in bed, and the man recognized him with a brief word. But there was no cordiality in the way he put out his hand to meet the minister's proffered one, and he took no notice whatever of the others. "Good-evening," said Mr. Scott pleasantly. "Some of the neighbors thought they would like to drop in and give you a word of welcome to the village. I'm glad to see you are looking much better." "I am quite better." The man's answer was curt and dry. He did not offer his visitors a seat, nor ask them to enter, but stood there, bent, shabby and forlorn, and looked at the minister with haggard eyes that besought him to go. But the look only made him more anxious to stay. "Do you mind if we sit a moment?" he asked, glancing at an old log near the doorway. The man hesitated. "It is a poor thing to refuse a welcome to any man," he said at last, with a quiet dignity, "and in the years that I had a fit roof to my head none was turned away; but"--he paused, as though he disliked to say the words--"but I have spent my life alone these last few years, and I find it better. So I am afraid I cannot offer you a seat, sir." The minister was as much surprised by the stately manner in which the words were delivered as by the astonishing declaration itself. Yet he could not feel angry at his dismissal; the man's eyes awakened only compassion. "But it is not good for us to shut ourselves away from our fellow-men," he said gently. "We miss much happiness and kindness." "And cruelty," added John McIntyre, with sharp bitterness. "And as to its being good for me, or otherwise, that matters nothing to any one."