in with a body of travelers who were going West--walking, and riding on the trains when they had a chance. He joined them. Somehow, he had ceased to consider what his doings might lead to, and as for misgivings as to the company he was keeping, that did not trouble him. For many days there was more walking than riding. Rupert was not expert at swinging himself under the cars and hanging to the brakebeams, so he traveled with the more easy-going element, who slept in the haylofts at night and got what food they could from farmhouses, though Rupert hoarded his little store of money and usually paid for what he got. Then he lost all track of time. It must have been far into the summer when Rupert separated from his companions, and found himself at the base of the mountains. Here he spent his last cent for a loaf of bread. That night Rupert felt a fever burning within him, and in the morning he was too weak to travel. He, therefore, lay in the hay which had served him for a bed until the sun shone in upon him; then he again tried to get out, but he trembled so that he crawled back into the loft and there lay the whole day. Towards evening he was driven out by the owner of the barn. Rupert staggered along until he came to another hayloft, which he succeeded in reaching without being seen. All that night he tossed in fever and suffered from the pains which racked his body. The next day a farmer found him, and seeing his condition, brought him some food. Then on he went again. His mind was now in a daze. Sometimes the mountains, the houses, and the fences became so jumbled together that he could not distinguish one from the other. Was he losing his mind? Or was it but the fever? Was the end coming?--and far from home, too--Home?--he had no home. One place was as good as another to him. He had no distinct recollection how he got to the usual hayloft, nor how long he lay there. It was one confused mass of pains and dreams and fantastic shapes. Then the fever must have burned out, for he awoke one night with a clear brain. Then he slept again. On awakening next morning and crawling out, he saw the sun shining on the snow-tipped peaks of the mountains. He had dreamed during the night of his mother and Virginia and Nina, and the dream had impressed him deeply. His haggard face was covered with a short beard; his clothes were dirty, and some rents were getting large. Yes, he had reached the bottom. He could go no further. He was a tramp--a dirty tramp. He had got to the end of his rope. He would reach the mountains which he still loved, and there on some cliff he would lie down and die. He would do it--would do it! All that day he walked. He asked not for food. He wanted nothing from any man. Alone he had come into the world, alone he would leave it. His face was set and hard. Up the mountain road he went, past farmhouse and village, up, farther up, until he reached a valley that looked like one he knew, but there was no town there, nothing but a level stretch of bench-land and a stream coursing down the lower part of the valley. Groves of pines extended over the foothills up towards the peaks. Up there he would go. Under the pines his bones would lie and bleach.