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 small, locked drawer, but as often withdrew his hand and shook his head…. In that little drawer were five photographs of his daughter Kate, the first in infancy, the last in young womanhood. He looked at them almost never. To-day he did not look at them, but resolutely set his hands to the work which called him, putting from his thoughts that which had been and that which might have been—and could never be….

Angus Burke, uninformed of the plans being made for him by others, sat in Dave Wilkins’s chair in Dave Wilkins’s room. He was busy. Even the few months of his man-life had altered him; at once he looked younger and more mature; he looked less phlegmatic and more determined. His face was not less heavy to a first glance, but a second made one grasp after the elusive wraith of a new expression—one which was there, yet vanished under the eye…. Presently he arose, put on his hat, and walked to the hotel for supper. He had taken to going to the hotel after deliberation. After the meal he went to see Dave Wilkins, whom he found, blanket-wrapped, in the Brownings’ parlor.

“Well,” said Dave happily, “I’m almost a man again to-day.”

“I’m—glad.” That was all. Dave’s eyes twinkled. After a few moments of silence he