his eyes and face lost in shadow. One would not have known that he was
breathing.




CHAPTER II


Half a dozen times that night David had walked from end to end of the
five snowbound coaches that made up the Transcontinental. He believed
that for him it was an act of Providence that had delayed the train.
Otherwise a sleeping car would have been picked up at the next
divisional point, and he would not have unburdened himself to Father
Roland. They would not have sat up until that late hour in the smoking
compartment, and this strange little man of the forest would not have
told him the story of a lonely cabin up on the edge of the Barrens--a
story of strange pathos and human tragedy that had, in some mysterious
way, unsealed his own lips. David had kept to himself the shame and
heartbreak of his own affliction since the day he had been compelled to
tell it, coldly and without visible emotion, to gain his own freedom. He
had meant to keep it to himself always. And of a sudden it had all come
out. He was not sorry. He was glad. He was amazed at the change in
himself. That day had been a terrible day for him. He could not get
_her_ out of his mind. Now a depressing hand seemed to have lifted
itself from his heart. He was quick to understand. His story had not
fallen upon ears eager with sensual curiosity. He had met a _man_, and
from the soul of that man there had reached out to him the spirit of a
deep and comforting strength. He would have revolted at compassion, and
words of pity would have shamed him. Father Roland had given voice to