My man helped me to carry him in. We laid him on the couch. The lamp smoked, the fire was out, the chill of the stormy night oozed from the cheer-less yellow paper on the wall. 'Amy!' I called aloud, and my voice seemed to lose itself in the emptiness of this tiny house as if I had cried in a desert. He opened his eyes. 'Gone!' he said dis-tinctly. 'I had only asked for water--only for a little water. . . .'
"He was muddy. I covered him up and stood waiting in silence, catching a painfully gasped word now and then. They were no longer in his own language. The fever had left him, taking with it the heat of life. And with his panting breast and lustrous eyes he reminded me again of a wild creature under the net; of a bird caught in a snare. She had left him. She had left him--sick --helpless--thirsty. The spear of the hunter had entered his very soul. 'Why?' he cried in the pen-etrating and indignant voice of a man calling to a responsible Maker. A gust of wind and a swish of rain answered.
"And as I turned away to shut the door he pro-nounced the word 'Merciful!' and expired.
"Eventually I certified heart-failure as the im-mediate cause of death. His heart must have in-deed failed him, or else he might have stood this night of storm and exposure, too. I closed his eyes and drove away. Not very far from the cottage Imet Foster walking sturdily between the dripping hedges with his collie at his heels.
"'Do you know where your daughter is?' I