Once he looked out of the window at the flare of light from his swinging lamp, stencilled on the white sand and the gray line of the dunes beyond.

At each of these resting-places his face assumed a different expression; hope, fear, and anger again swept across it as his judgment struggled with his heart.

In one of his turns up and down the small room he laid his hand on a brick lying on the window-sill--one that had been sent by the builders of the Station as a sample.

This he turned over carefully, examining the edges and color as if he had seen it for the first time and had to pass judgment upon its defects or merits.

Laying it back in its place, he threw himself into his chair again, exclaiming aloud, as if talking to someone: "It ain't true.