Leighton made a deprecating gesture. The chief raised his hand and
smiled.

"Ah," he said, "do not rob me of that thought. It was a stroke of
genius. Between us," he continued, "we will advance you all the money
you will need for a year. By that time we can send you more." He rose,
and held out his hand. "Now, my friend, go, and God go with you!"

Leighton took the chief's hand.

"Good-by. I--I thank you."

"Not at all," said the chief, with a hearty grip. "To-morrow, eh? Get
away to-morrow."

Leighton walked out and home in a daze. The remembrance of the agony in
which he had resigned himself to the abandonment of his family, to
notoriety, disgrace, and retribution, clung to him. What had seemed a
nightmare, with an awakening bound to come, now became a waking dream,
more terrible, because no dawn could give it end.

But the chief had been wise. He had left Leighton no time for disastrous
introspection. Action, work, that sovereign antidote for troubled minds,
seized upon him. He told Mrs. Leighton in as few words as possible what
had happened.

She, too, was dazed by the chief's philosophy of friendship.

"But, Orme----" she began.