seen the name in the wooden arch over the gate: "Schwitter's."

"I'm not going in there, Mr. Le Moyne."

"Tillie's not in the house. She's back in the barn."

"In the barn!"

"She didn't approve of all that went on there, so she moved out. It's
very comfortable and clean; it smells of hay. You'd be surprised how
nice it is."

"The like of her!" snorted Mrs. McKee. "She's late with her conscience,
I'm thinking."

"Last night," K. remarked, hands on the wheel, but car stopped, "she
had a child there. It--it's rather like very old times, isn't it? A
man-child, Mrs. McKee, not in a manger, of course."

"What do you want me to do?" Mrs. McKee's tone, which had been fierce at
the beginning, ended feebly.

"I want you to go in and visit her, as you would any woman who'd had a
new baby and needed a friend. Lie a little--" Mrs. McKee gasped. "Tell
her the baby's pretty. Tell her you've been wanting to see her." His
tone was suddenly stern. "Lie a little, for your soul's sake."

She wavered, and while she wavered he drove her in under the arch with
the shameful name, and back to the barn. But there he had the tact to
remain in the car, and Mrs. McKee's peace with Tillie was made alone.
When, five minutes later, she beckoned him from the door of the barn,
her eyes were red.

"Come in, Mr. K.," she said. "The wife's dead, poor thing. They're going
to be married right away."

The clergyman was coming along the path with Schwitter at his heels. K.
entered the barn. At the door to Tillie's room he uncovered his head.
The child was asleep at her breast.

The five thousand dollar check from Mr. Lorenz had saved Palmer Howe's
credit. On the strength of the deposit, he borrowed a thousand at the
bank with which he meant to pay his bills, arrears at the University and
Country Clubs, a hundred dollars lost throwing aces with poker dice, and
various small obligations of Christine's.

The immediate result of the money was good. He drank nothing for a week,
went into the details of the new venture with Christine's father, sat at
home with Christine on her balcony in the evenings. With the knowledge
that he could pay his debts, he postponed the day. He liked the feeling
of a bank account in four figures.

The first evening or two Christine's pleasure in having him there
gratified him. He felt kind, magnanimous, almost virtuous. On the third
evening he was restless. It occurred to him that his wife was beginning
to take his