the hunter fired this trusty old weapon and got no game, it was his own fault. I had come to great skill with this gun. I was not strong enough to hold it out off-hand, but could throw the long stock under my right arm, catch my left elbow on my left hip, bend over to get in line with the sights, and kill game on the ground. From the trees I had but little difficulty in getting a rest on a limb or by the side of a tree. It was a point of pride with me not to cut the body of the squirrel with the bullet. The size of a squirrel's head was range enough anywhere. I sauntered through the woods this afternoon, given over largely to random thoughts and reflections, killing a squirrel now and then, and taking a sort of quarter-day holiday—a respite I had not enjoyed since the busy work of the spring opened. I remembered seeing old Jim that morning, in a skulking sort of way (he always appeared to me to skulk), with a gun on his shoulder, come from the direction of the Balner den, as it was commonly known-a family of bad repute, where, we understood, Jim had been keeping himself for a month or more-and he went into the timber east of Hazelgreen. Father at noon had gone west to the hill farm on the breaks of the creek, and was to return about sundown. He must travel an unfre

quented road nearly all the way; and it was the road old Jim came out in the morning. If Jim returned that way, he would meet father coming home. Putting these things together brought unpleasant thoughts; so much so, that I lost all zest in the hunt, and had pushed my head and shoulders up among the low branches of a scraggy jack-oak bush in the thicket, and laid the gun across the limbs to take a rest and remain quietly in hiding until a squirrel should report himself somewhere near. I was in the thickest kind of underbrush in about forty yards of the road, and could see it plainly, having a view up and down half a quarter or more. I saw old Jim coming down the road with his gun on his shoulder, and with his hat off, carrying it in front of him. He had something in his hat.

"What shall I do now?" I said to myself. He will meet father in the darkest place of the wood-road coming home. Jim could have easily been a spy to his going west at noon. I could not shake off my anxiety at the thought that the two men would meet alone in the woods; one of them armed, and with a grudge in his heart. The sure way for my father's safety began to sway me. Through a slight opening in the trees I saw Jim plainly as he came down the roadway, and seated him

self on an old log right opposite me by the

roadside. I knew that he had been down to the
house, and that mother had given him food.
Through a break in the leaves not more than a
foot square I had a full view, and was so situated
that he could not possibly see me, unless, by
noise or movement, his eye should be attracted.
He took a part of a loaf of bread from his hat,
and begun to crunch it. It was the part of a
fine loaf we had left for dinner. That was
plainly mother's bread. It was to my mind a
woman's feeble effort to make peace with a
villain. That huge man sat there, with his hat
off, straight and still as a statue, except the
working of his jaws and the going and coming
of his hand, feeding himself. The sun was
shining in his face. I saw his features as I
never saw them before. Stalwart form, high
forehead, uncombed hair reaching down to his
shoulders, and whiskers as shaggy as a bush-
man. Things dark and devilish were in that
face. Mother's gift of food was to me a humilia-
tion. Uncle Welborn had fed that man for years,
and then had been killed by him. I thought
of my father's peaceful and laborious and pros-
perous life. And there before me was the object
of all the hate I had ever known. Conse-
quences! What are they but the forces that

move me! I pushed my rifle up over the limb of that jack-oak-cocked it, with the triggers set— and drew a perfect bead on old Jim's forehead just three-quarters of an inch above his left eyebrow, and held it there, and rubbed my finger up and down the hair trigger of the rifle! I raised my head from the gun, and watched him for a while; then drew another bead, and rubbed the trigger! Three separate times I did that thing. I did not kill old Jim because God drove me away from an awful desire. I wanted to touch the trigger-God forgive me! Did Jim's life hang in a balance? Did mine? Did the destiny of my soul hang on the fact of my rubbing that trigger without firing? In those moments the chatter of a squirrel in the branches would have touched my nerves and killed Jim. How calmly a mortal at times will walk out on the edges of eternal woe! Glad indeed I am that I did not kill that desperate man. It would have wrecked my life.

As I walked away I was as conscious of the presence of an unseen and superior Power as I am conscious that I am writing these pages. I make a deliberate testimony that God stayed my murderous intent, and that he was angry with me. In the desire of my heart I had vexed him. This is all I can say about it-only that