whisky would hearten yuh up." And she went quickly to the door.

Cassidy sat still in his chair, making up his mind--about the whisky.

"There!" said Sarah Gentry, suddenly appearing with a glass which she
set on the coffin. "Looks real good, don't it?"

Cassidy's forehead was damp with perspiration. Inside of him something
was clamoring frightfully for the stuff in the glass. Something seemed
gnawing at his very heart and soul, threatening and pleading, begging
and insisting, fashioning devilish excuses, promising great things.
Cassidy's hand stretched slowly out for the drink--and came back.
There was a silence. The woman fixed her large, strong eyes on his.
Again he reached out his hand, and his face was strained and
unpleasant to look upon. But again he stopped before he took the
glass. A horse had whinnied outside. Cassidy shook his head grimly.
Putting his toe against the glass, he deftly kicked it into the
corner. "I reckon not," he said.

The woman jumped to her feet.

"Git up!" she said impulsively. "Git up and shake hands. You're a
_man_! And now we'll go out and git tuh buryin'."

A little party of six was assembled in a gulch in the sand-hills. The
coffin, marked only with a card, lay in a slight depression scooped
out by the wind.

Nearest to the rough pine box stood the widow, with lowered eyes, but
without the trace of an expression on her face. Heavy-handed,