that altered him altogether, as death alters the features, leaving them strangely unfamiliar. And even as I looked, the expression passed. He lifted his eyes to mine, and even smiled.

“There is,” he said, “a viewless farm which companions even the swiftest on the last long trail, a phantom-pilot which leads only toward that Shadowed Valley of endless rest. In my ears all day — close, close to my ear, I have heard the whisper of this unseen ghost — everywhere I have heard it, amid the din of the artillery, on windy hill-tops, in the long silence of the forest, through the noise of torrents in lost ravines, by flowing rivers sparkling in the sun — everywhere my pilot whispers to me. I can not escape,, Loskiel; whatever trail I take, that is the trail; whichever way I turn, that is the