path of the future seemed surer.

He was a prisoner on parole; still that did not depress him. Plans for
coming days were talked of, and the laughter of many voices filled the
house. The ne'er-do-weel was clothed and in his right mind. In the
Hunter's Room the noblest trophy was the heart of a repentant prodigal.

In the barracks that morning a gazetted notice was posted, announcing,
with such technical language as is the custom, that Sergeant Fones was
promoted to be a lieutenant in the Mounted Police Force of the North West
Territory. When the officer in command sent for him he could not be
found. But he was found that morning; and when Private Gellatly, with
a warm hand, touching the glove of "iron and ice" that, indeed, now said:
"Sergeant Fones, you are promoted, God help you!" he gave no sign.
Motionless, stern, erect, he sat there upon his horse, beside a stunted
larch tree. The broncho seemed to understand, for he did not stir, and
had not done so for hours;--they could tell that. The bridle rein was
still in the frigid fingers, and a smile was upon the face.

A smile upon the face of Sergeant Fones!

Perhaps he smiled that he was going to the Barracks of the Free--

"Free among the Dead like unto them that are wounded and lie in the
grave, that are out of remembrance."

In the wild night he had lost his way, though but a few miles from the
barracks.

He had done his duty rigidly in that sphere of life where he had lived so