leaving Baby
Bet at home? And what did he do with Mary and Aunt Margaret? And
didn't he think she looked fetching in this cap and apron?

And then some subtle change in John Coulson's kindly manner made itself
felt. She slipped her hand into his arm as they went up the garden
path.

"Is anybody sick, John Coulson? How is baby?"

"She's all right, dear. No, Annie isn't ill, nor anyone--only--I--have
something to tell you, Lizzie. Come in, I want to see you alone."

The study stove-pipes were still being removed, and Elizabeth led her
brother-in-law into the parlor. Her heart seemed clutched by a cold
hand. Something was the matter, or why should John Coulson call her
Lizzie, and look at her with such sorrowful eyes.

"John Coulson!" she cried, clutching his arm, "I know something's
happened. Oh, is it baby?"

No, it wasn't baby, he answered her again, but he led her to the sofa
and sat beside her, holding her hand. And then he told her--Elizabeth
never knew just how he broke the news, whether it had been gently or
suddenly. She only knew that he had come to tell her that John was
dead; that John had been killed by an explosion of dynamite, at the
blasting of a tunnel on the British North American Railroad.

She listened quietly to the faltering words, and when they were ended
she said nothing. She sat looking at her brother-in-law, her hands
hanging inertly, and thought how strange it seemed to see a big, strong
man like John Coulson with tears running down his face. It seemed
strange, too, that she was not sorry that John had been killed. Often
in earlier years she had tormented herself by imagining the death of
some member of the family, and her heart had scarcely been able to bear
the anguish of such a thought. And now John was dead, and she did not
mind. She felt sorry for John Coulson, of course, he seemed so very,
very sad. He was looking at her with such anguished eyes, that she
patted his arm comfortingly.

"Poor John Coulson," she said. "Why, we won't need to call you John
Coulson any more, will we?--only John." Then she arose and called her
father and Sarah Emily, so that they might be told, and went quietly
upstairs to finish the task she had left.

But she did not go to work. Instead she sat down in the chair upon
which Sarah Emily had stood, and tried to reason herself into some
feeling of grief. Why, she had not even felt like shedding a tear, and
Aunt Margaret would be home