object to meet the old man's gaze; and it brought with it a flush of
such painful consciousness, that he started, and glanced quickly around.
But his eyes only encountered those of York,--clear, gray, critical, and
patient,--and they fell again.

"Tell me, old man," said York not unkindly, but with the same cold,
clear tone in his voice that his eye betrayed a moment ago,--"tell me,
is THAT a lie too?" and he pointed to the picture.

The old man closed his eyes, and did not reply. Two hours before, the
question would have stung him into some evasion or bravado. But the
revelation contained in the question, as well as the tone of York's
voice, was to him now, in his pitiable condition, a relief. It was
plain, even to his confused brain, that York had lied when he had
indorsed his story in the bar-room; it was clear to him now that he had
not been home, that he was not, as he had begun to fear, going mad.
It was such a relief, that, with characteristic weakness, his former
recklessness and extravagance returned. He began to chuckle, finally to
laugh uproariously.

York, with his eyes still fixed on the old man, withdrew the hand with
which he had taken his.

"Didn't we fool 'em nicely; eh, Yorky! He, he! The biggest thing yet
ever played in this camp! I always said I'd play 'em all some day, and
I have--played 'em for six months. Ain't it rich?--ain't it the richest
thing you ever seed? Did you see Abner's face when he spoke 'bout that
man as seed me in Sonora? Warn't it good as the minstrels? Oh, it's too
much!" and, striking his leg with the palm of his hand, he almost
threw himself from the bed in a paroxysm of laughter,--a paroxysm that,