n flesh and blood for a competence.

"Why don't you look at him, George?"

"I don't think he'd care to have me looking at him now."

She wiped her eyes.

"You are too bitter against your father. After all, he was a good man."

"Why should death," he asked her, musingly, "make people seem better
than they were in life? It isn't so."

"That's wicked. If your father could rise----"

His attention was caught by an air of pointing the oblong box had, as if
to something infinitely farther than ambition and success, yet so close
it angered him he couldn't see or touch it. His father had gone there,
beyond the farthest horizon of all. Old Planter couldn't make trouble
for him now. He was quite safe.

Over in Europe, he reflected, they didn't have enough coffins.

The oblong box for the first time made him think of that war, that was
making him rich, in terms of life instead of dollars and cents. He felt
dissatisfied.

"There should be more light here," he said, defensively.

But his mother shook her head.

He arranged a chair for her and sat near by while they discussed the
details of her departure. She let him see that she shrank from leaving
the house, against which, nevertheless, she had bitterly complained ever
since Old Planter had got it. Evidently she wanted to linger in her
familiar rut, awaiting with the attitude of a martyr whatever fate might
offer. That was the reason people had to be helped, because they
preferred vicious inertia to the efforts and risks of change. Then why
did they want the prizes of those who had had the courage to go forth
and fight? Why couldn't Squibs see that?

Patiently George told her she needn't worry about money again. She had a
sister who years ago had married and moved West to a farm that was not
particularly flourishing. Undoubtedly her sister would be glad to have
her and her generous allowance. So his will overcame his mother's
reluctance to help herself. She glanced up.

"Who is that?"

He listened. The women in the kitchen were standing again. Light feet
crossed the floor.

"Maybe somebody from the big house," his mother whispered. "They sent
Simpson last night."

For a moment the entire building was as silent as the oblong box. Then
the door opened.

Sylvia Planter slipped in and closed the door.

George caught his breath, studying her as she hesitated, accustoming
herself to the insufficient light. She wore a broad-brimmed hat that
gave her the charm and