days, faded far into the background. A beautiful dream, to be summoned in lonely hours, perhaps; but now the spar must be packed. There were no hollows about his eyes. Ten minutes after he had found his work for life was ready for him last night, he had lain down and slept soundly. It made Lizzy angry to know that he was sleeping like a log in the next room.
"Now, that is the difference between men and women," she said.
"Why, it is only for a year, Lizzy," he said, wringing her hand good-bye, when Doctor Pritchard came at last, and Beck and Washington were storing away the valise in the buggy.
"Only a year! Oh, Dallas! But a year is nothing to you. You will inherit a great fortune—you will marry—"
"No woman would marry a convict. There is no need to remind me of that," sternly.
"There is no need to tell her," eagerly.
"I've no time to be thinking of marriage now, Lizzy. Good-bye—God bless you! I don't forget all you've done for me."
"Time's up, Galbraith!" shouted the Doctor. He was looking down with dismay at Mrs. Beck's store of luncheon and jam jars.
Dallas nodded, packing them in. "Hush. Humor her. We can throw it out easily enough. One moment;" and he ran back to leave a package in his room for Matt.
In that moment Doctor Pritchard saw Mr. Galbraith ride up, quickly, over the brow of the hill, and he drove on to speak to him. He fancied the old gentleman was curiously distrait and anxious. He looked beyond the Doctor, at Dallas when he came out on the steps again and they all gathered about him.
"That is your assistant, Pritchard?" he said.
"Yes; that is my young friend. I use that word advisedly," with a half defiant tone. "I take him on the responsibility of my instinct, sir. His history is nothing to me."
Mr. Galbraith hesitated: "You have heard his history then?"
"From himself. Without reservation."
There was a strange lightening in Mr. Galbraith's face, which struck even the unobservant Professor as odd. He found, too, that one or two remarks which he made were unheard by the old gentleman, so intently was he regarding the group on the porch, and listening to an occasional word from Dallas.
"The lad," he said, at last, "has the gift of attaching all kinds of people to him. It belonged to—to another of the Galbraiths."
"Yes; but he has the gift of attaching himself to his work, which is better. I have been pleased to see how, since his proper profession opened to him, he has taken hold of it—like a tree that finds itself inits native soil. Friends nor women will not hold this young fellow back, sir. They will be outside matters to him. His work will be the air he breathes."
"You think the discipline good for him, then?" anxiously.
"It is not good—it is necessary. As air to breathe," crustily.
Mr. Galbraith turned his quiet, critical eyes on the irritable little man beside him, as though sounding his nature in reference to some secret thought of his own: then, satisfied, they went back to the tall figure on the porch and the face of the younger man. There was an odd likeness of meaning between them. He wondered if there were any virtue in the earth's secrets that kept the souls of men, who were born to dig them out, clean and honest.
"It is better the boy should go," he said, slowly, as Dallas, having bidden Matt the last hearty good-bye, came to ward them, and for the first time saw his grandfather. Mr. Galbraith pressed his horse forward a step and half held out his hand, but seeing that Dallas stopped, he bowed without speaking.
"Now, that fellow does not mean to be uncivil," said the Doctor, quickly. "He will not shake your hand because
