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 with that act shut himself out of this story, as a man goes down to the grave from the great serial of life, his consequence upon him, his little part in the drama done.

Mrs. Cowgill went upstairs to take off her nightgown after Cal Withers left. She had put her clothes on over that garment of privacy, not with such happy effect as might have been desired. It was a gown with a flounce, and very long, Mrs. Cowgill being a discreet and modest dame. This flounce came down below the hem of her serge skirt at least four inches. It was not contributive to the dignity of the house.

Louise Gardner was at her door, in such a bloodless, frightened and woeful plight that Mrs. Cowgill hastened to her to offer support and cheer.

"Is he dead?" Louise whispered, her eyes big with fright of the sight she had fled from, her heart heavy with the thought that it was Tom Laylander's sure hand that had brought the cowman down.

Mrs. Cowgill related the amazing recovery, with more contempt for a man who would not die when he was expected by everybody to do so, than appreciation of the betrayal of his own rascality that Withers had made. She never was so much astonished in her life as she was when Louise turned her face to the wall, bowed her head against her arm and cried, sobbing as if she had suffered a bereavement for which there was no consolation in the world.

Mrs. Cowgill did not attempt any consolation; consolation was not in her line. It was beyond her to understand emotion of that kind, and whatever was in-