Brown came out from his bedroom, a long figure in his bathrobe and
slippers, and knelt down before the old rocking-chair. Jennings, in his
surprise, sat perfectly still, looking at him. He could see Brown's lean,
strong face in profile, the fine head--it was a very fine head, though
perhaps Jennings did not appreciate that--a little lifted, the eyes
closed. Brown prayed in a conversational tone, as if the One he addressed
were in the room above, with an opening between.

Then he rose, a little tender smile on his face, said, "Good-night,
old man," and went away into the inner room--the door of which he did
not close.

What did he leave behind him? What was in the air? Was this a common
room, a homely room, lighted only by a smoldering fire? What was it which
suddenly and unaccountably gripped George Jennings's heart, so that a sob
rose in his throat? What made him want to cry, like a schoolboy, with his
head on his arms? With all his long misery, tears had never once come to
his relief. His heart had been hard and his eyes dry. Now, somehow, he
felt something give way.

* * * * *

Jennings slept all night, and came out to breakfast with a queer,
shamefaced aspect, yet with considerably less heaviness of foot than he
had shown the night before. He ate heartily, as well he might, for the
food was extremely appetizing. When he got up to go he stood still by his
chair, seeming to be trying to say something. Seeing this, Brown came
over to him and put his hand on his shoulder.

"Yes, lad?" said he interrogatively. He was smiling and the smile