nd his mother ill--plainly dying.
And his father--Bladen Scarborough's boast had been that he never took
a "dose of drugs" in his life, and for at least seventy of his
seventy-nine years he had been "on the jump" daily from long before
dawn until long after sundown. Now he was content to sit in his
arm-chair and, with no more vigorous protest than a frown and a growl,
to swallow the despised drugs.

Each day he made them carry him in his great chair into HER bedroom.
And there he sat all day long, his shaggy brows down, his gaze rarely
wandering from the little ridge her small body made in the high white
bed; and in his stern eyes there was a look of stoic anguish. Each
night, as they were carrying him to his own room, they took him near
the bed; and he leaned forward, and the voice that in all their years
had never been anything but gentle for her said: "Good night, Sallie."
And the small form would move slightly, there would be a feeble turning
of the head, a wan smile on the little old face, a soft "Good night,
Bladen."

It was on Hampden's ninth day at home that the old man said "Good
night, Sallie," and there was no answer--not even a stir. They did not
offer to carry him in the next morning; nor did he turn his face from
the wall. She died that day; he three days later--he had refused food
and medicine; he had not shed a tear or made a sound.

Thus the journey side by side for fifty-one years was a journey no
longer. They were asleep side by side on the hillside for ever.

Hampden stayed at home only one day after the funeral. He came back to
Battle Field apparently unchanged. He was not in black, for Bladen
Scarborough abhorred mourning as he abhorred all outward symbols of the
things of the heart. But after a week he told Pauline about it; and as
he talked she sobbed, though his voice did not break nor his eyes dim.

"He's like his father," she thought.

When Olivia believed that Dumont was safely forgotten she teased
her--"Your adoring and adored Scarborough."

Pauline was amused by this. With his unfailing instinct, Scarborough
had felt--and had never permitted himself to forget--that there was
some sort of wall round her for him. It was in perfect good faith that
she answered Olivia: "You don't understand him. He's a queer
man--sometimes I wonder myself that he doesn't get just a little
sentimental. I suppose I'd find him exasperating--if I weren't
otherwise engaged."

Olivia tried no