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Saul drew a long breath, and held his hands to the fire as if he felt again the sharp suffering of that night.

“And the man?” asked Emily, softly, as if reluctant to break the silence.

“He was a man! In times like that men talk like brothers and show what they are. Lying there, slowly freezing, Joe Cummings told me about his wife and babies, his old folks waiting for him, all depending on him, yet all ready to give him up when he was needed. A plain man, but honest and true, and loving as a woman; I soon saw that as he went on talking, half to me and half to himself, for sometimes he wandered a little toward the end. I’ve read books, heard sermons, and seen good folks, but nothing ever came so close or did me so much good as seeing this man die. He had one chance and gave it cheerfully. He longed for those he loved, and let ’em go with a good-by they couldn’t hear. He suffered all the pains we most shrink from without a murmur, and kept my heart warm while his own was growing cold. It’s no use trying to tell that part of it; but I heard prayers that night that meant something, and I saw how faith could hold a soul up when everything was gone but God.”

Saul stopped there with a sudden huskiness in his deep voice, and when he went on it was in the tone of one who speaks of a dear friend.

“Joe grew still by and by, and I thought he was asleep, for I felt his breath when I tucked him up, and his hand held on to mine. The cold sort of numbed me, and I dropped off, too weak and stupid to think or feel. I never should have waked up if it hadn’t been for Joe. When I came to, it was morning, and I thought I was dead, for all I could see was that great field of white mounds, like graves, and a splendid sky above. Then I looked for Joe, remembering; but he had put my coat back over me, and lay stiff and still under the snow that covered him like a shroud, all except his face. A bit of my cape had blown over it, and when I took it off and the sun shone on his dead face, I declare to you it was so full of heavenly peace I felt as if that common man had been glorified by God’s light, and rewarded by God’s ‘Well done.’ That’s all.”

No one spoke for a moment, while the women wiped their eyes, and Saul dropped his as if to hide something softer than tears.

“It was very noble, very touching. And you? how did you get off at last?” asked Randal, with real admiration and respect in his usually languid face.

“Crawled off,” answered Saul, relapsing into his former brevity of speech.

“Why not before, and save yourself all that misery?”

“Couldn’t leave Joe.”

“Ah, I see; there were two heroes that night.”

“Dozens, I’ve no doubt. Those were times that made heroes of men, and women, too.”

“Tell us more;” begged Emily, looking up with an expression none of her admirers ever brought to her face by their softest compliments or wiliest gossip.

“I’ve done my part. It’s Mr. Randal’s turn now;” and Saul drew himself out of the ruddy circle of firelight, as if ashamed of the prominent part he was playing.

Sophie and her friend had often heard Randal talk, for he was an accomplished raconteur, but that night he exerted himself, and was unusually brilliant and entertaining, as if upon his mettle. The Bassets were charmed. They sat late and were very merry, for Aunt Plumy got up a little supper for them, and her cider was as exhilarating as champagne. When they parted for the night and Sophie kissed her aunt, Emily did the same, saying heartily,–