stretched away through the years in a soul-sickening vista. Five years, ten years, twenty years—how many?—he was young yet—but he had already lived his life—what was before him was a living death, years of drear hopelessness, of degradation, of shattered ambitions—he would eat and breath would be in his body, and at command, as a beast obeys its master, he would obey—for the rest of his natural life. Strong man and brave, of tender heart, who loved the flowers and trees and blades of grass, and children with their prattle and their happy mirth, who loved his fellow men, who knew their smiles and tears and was one with them in all, he faltered now. And silently, fervently, reverently, as one asks for an immeasurable boon, he asked for help in simple words.
"God, in Thy mercy, give me strength," he prayed.
And, as though in answer, blotted from his eyes was the reality that lay before him, and in its place he saw again the gentle, patient face, the loving smile, the smoothed-grey hair beneath the old-lace cap, the eyes that looked into his, serene and calm and full of trust—the face of Mrs. Merton. It brought him comfort now and a strange contentment, that blended peace and resignation.
Then slowly the mental picture began to fade away, and loathe to let it go, to hold it with him longer, Varge closed his eyes—when he opened them again another face was before him, a heavy-bearded face with sharp black eyes that were fixed on him with blunt, uncompromising intentness.
A mounted man in uniform had swung his horse to Varge's side and was keeping pace with the sleigh. A
