"How do you know it?"

York turned his clear, honest, frank eyes on his questioner, and without
a tremor told the only direct and unmitigated lie of his life. "Because
I've seen him there."

The answer was conclusive. It was known that York had been visiting the
East during the old man's absence. The colloquy had diverted attention
from Plunkett, who, pale and breathless, was staring at his unexpected
deliverer. As he turned again toward his tormentors, there was something
in the expression of his eye that caused those that were nearest to him
to fall back, and sent a strange, indefinable thrill through the boldest
and most reckless. As he made a step forward, the physician, almost
unconsciously, raised his hand with a warning gesture; and old man
Plunkett, with his eyes fixed upon the red-hot stove, and an odd smile
playing about his mouth, began,--

"Yes--of course you did. Who says you didn't? It ain't no lie. I said I
was goin' home--and I've been home. Haven't I? My God! I have. Who says
I've been lyin'? Who says I'm dreamin'? Is it true--why don't you speak?
It is true, after all. You say you saw me there: why don't you speak
again? Say, say!--is it true? It's going now. O my God! it's going
again. It's going now. Save me!" And with a fierce cry he fell forward
in a fit upon the floor.

When the old man regained his senses, he found himself in York's cabin.
A flickering fire of pine-boughs lit up the rude rafters, and fell upon
a photograph tastefully framed with fir-cones, and hung above the brush
whereon he lay. It was the portrait of a young girl. It was the first