The Hounds of Fate
smooth, evenly parted hair, and, finally, a young man with a somewhat surly, daredevil expression. At this last portrait Stoner looked with particular interest; the likeness to himself was unmistakable.
From the lips of old George, who was garrulous enough on most subjects, he tried again and again to learn something of the nature of the offence which shut him off as a creature to be shunned and hated by his fellow-men.
"What do the folk around here say about me?" he asked one day as they were walking home from an outlying field.
The old man shook his head.
"They be bitter agen you, mortal bitter. Aye, 'tis a sad business, a sad business."
And never could he be got to say anything more enlightening.
On a clear frosty evening, a few days before the festival of Christmas, Stoner stood in a corner of the orchard which commanded a wide view of the countryside. Here and there he could see the twinkling dots of lamp or candle glow which told of human homes where the goodwill and jollity of the season held their sway. Behind him lay the grim,
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