shock to the little community and gave Toyner a pain of heart such as
almost nothing else could have given. Ann's father, John Markham, had a
deadly dispute with a man by the name of Walker. Walker was a
comparatively new comer to the town, or he would have known better than
to gamble with Markham as he did and arouse his enmity. The feud lasted
for a week, and then Markham shot his enemy with a borrowed fire-arm.
Walker was discovered wounded, and cared for, but with little hope of
his recovery. From all around the men assembled to seize Markham, but
half a night had elapsed, and it was found that he had made good his
escape. When the others had gone, Toyner stood alone before Ann Markham.

I have often heard what Toyner looked like in those days. Slight as his
theological knowledge might be, he was quite convinced that if religion
was anything it must be everything, personal appearance included. As he
stood before Ann, he appeared to be a dapper, rather dandified man, for
he had dressed himself just as well as he could. Everything that he did
was done just as well as he could in those days; that was the reason he
did not shirk the inexpressibly painful duty which now devolved on him.

You may picture him. His clothes were black, his linen good. He wore a
large white tie, which was the fashionable thing in that time and place.
His long moustache, which was fine rather than heavy, hung down to his
chin on either side of his mouth. He did not look like a man who would
chance upon any strong situation in life, for the strength of
circumstances is the strength of the soul that opposes them, and we are
childishly given to estimating the strength of souls by certain outward
tests, although they fail us daily.

"I have always been your friend, Ann," said Toyner sadly.