l he had his hand on the linen. Then,
with a short yank, he pulled away the cover and saw the boy's head. Dark
as it was, it was enough to show him the truth. With a quick move he
covered him again. There was a smeary wetness on his fingers, which he
wiped away on the side of his trousers. They were drenched with rain,
but he distinguished the sticky feel of blood leaving his hand as he
rubbed it nervously.

His first emotion was one of anger with Rose. He was sure she had played
this sinister jest deliberately to torture him and he had fallen into
the trap. He wanted to rush back into the other room and strike her
down. He would show her! But he dismissed this impulse, for he did not
want her to see him like this, no hold on himself and his mind without
direction. Sitting there, she would have the advantage. Without so much
as a sound except for the slight noise he made in walking, Martin went
through the parlor towards the front door and out to the steps, where he
leaned for a moment against the weather-boarding, letting the rain fall
on him as he stared dully down at the ground. It felt good to stand
there. No eyes were on him, and the rain was refreshing. This had
been too much for him. Never had he known himself to be so near to
bewilderment. How fortunate that he had escaped by this simple trick of
leaving the house. Then he thought of the car--a half-mile north--and
the horses in the stable. He must do something. He would bring the car
into the garage. It was relieving to hurry across the dripping grass
toward the barn. How wonderful it was to keep the body doing something
when the breath in him was short, his heart battering like an engine
with burned-out bearings, his brain in insane chaos. As he applied a
match to the lantern he thought of his wife again, and his face regained
its scowl.

Only when he had his great heavy team in the yard, his lantern hanging
from his arm, the reins in his hands, and was pulling back with all his
strength as he followed the horses--only then did he permit himself to
think about the tragedy that had befallen.

"He's dead--killed," he groaned. "It had to come. Shot-firers don't last
long. Whoa, there, Lottie; not so fast, Jet, whoa!" His protesting team
in control again, he trudged heavily behind. "It's terrible to die that
way--not a chance in a thousand. And a kid of sixteen didn't have the
judgment--couldn't have. But Bill knew what he was facing every evening.
He didn't go