ight of contentment that
was gradually stealing into his face. After all, each one had to work
out his destiny in his own way, she supposed.

It was less than a month later that her telephone rang, and Rose, calmly
laying aside her sewing and getting up rather stiffly because of her
rheumatism, answered, thinking it probably a call from Martin, who had
left earlier in the evening, to wind up a little matter of a chattel on
some growing wheat. It had just begun to rain and she feared he might be
stuck in the road somewhere, calling to tell her to come for him. But it
was not Martin's voice that answered.

"Mrs. Wade?"

"Yes."

"Why"--there was a forbidding break that made her shudder. A second
later she convinced herself that it seemed a natural halt--people do
such things without any apparent cause; but she could not help shaking a
little.

"Is it about Mr. Wade?" and as she asked this question she wondered why
she had spoken her husband's name when it was Bill's that really had
rushed through her mind.

"No, ma'am, it ain't about Martin Wade I'm callin' you up, it ain't him
at all--"

"I see." She said this calmly and quietly, as though to impress her
informant and reassure him. "What is it?" It was almost unnecessary to
ask, for she knew already what had happened, knew that the boy had flung
his dice and lost.

"It's your son, Mrs. Wade; it's him I'm a-callin' about. We're about to
bring him home to you--an'--and I thought it'd be better to call you up
first so's you might expect us an' not take on with the suddenness of
it all. This is Brown--Harry Brown--the nightman at the mine down here.
We've got the ambulance here and we're about ready to start." There was
an evenness about the strange voice that she understood better than its
words. If Bill had been hurt the man would have been quick and jerky in
his speaking as though he were feeling the boy's pain with him; but he
was so even about it all--as even as Death.

"Then I'll phone for Dr. Bradley so he'll be here by the time you come,"
said Rose, wondering how she could think of so practical a thing. Her
mind had wrapped itself in a protecting armor, forbidding the shock of
it all to strike with a single blow. She couldn't understand why she was
not screaming.

"You can--if you want to, but Bill don't need him, Mrs. Wade,--he's
dead."

Slowly she hung up the receiver, the wall still around her brain,
holding it tight and keeping her nerves taut, afr