uncertain way which heralds a storm; some touched the dead face with pure
white fingers, as though they would hide the degraded body from any eyes
less kind than God's.

Helen, who had gone further back into the street that Molly might not
look again at her father, came to John's side.

"I will take Molly home with me," she said; "tell Mrs. Davis where she
is."

"Gifford is here to go with you?" John asked, with that quick tenderness
which never left him. Then he turned away to help in carrying the dead
man to his home.

The silent procession, with its awful burden, went back through the
streets, lighted yet by the pulsing glare of the fire. John walked beside
the still figure with his head bent upon his breast. That first impulse
of human exultation in a brave deed was gone; there was a horror of pity
instead. Just before they reached Tom's home, he stopped, by a gesture,
the men who bore the body.

"Oh, my people," he said, his hands stretched out to them, the snow
falling softly on his bared head, "God speaks to you from the lips of
this dead man. Listen to his words: the day or the hour knoweth no man;
and are you ready to face the judgment-seat of Christ? Oh, be not
deceived, be not deceived! Whatsoever a man soweth, that shall he also
reap."

It was long past midnight when the knot of men about Tom Davis's door
dispersed; the excitement of the fire faded before that frank interest in