up into his face pleaded earnestly:

"Father, let's take the hunderd dollars fer a fambly tombstun an' go ter
the poorhouse tergether!"

He shook her off almost roughly and lifted the latch of the gate.

"Folks'd say we was crazy, Mother."

There was no one in sight as he dragged in the express-cart and laid
down the handle. Before him was a long, clean-swept path ending
apparently in a mass of shrubbery; to the left was a field of sweet corn
reaching to the hedge; to the right a strong and sturdy growth of pole
lima beans; and just within the entrance, beneath the sweeping plumes of
a weeping-willow tree, was a shabby but inviting green bench.

Abe's glance wandered from the bench to his wife's face. Angy could not
lift her eyes to him; with bowed head she was latching and unlatching
the gate through which he must pass. He looked at the sun and
thoughtfully made reckon of the time. There were still two hours before
he could take the train which--

"Lef 's go set deown a spell afore--" he faltered--"afore we say
good-by."

She made no answer. She told herself over and over that she must--simply
must--stop that "all-of-a-tremble" feeling which was going on inside of
her. She stepped from the gate to the bench blindly, with Abe's hand on
her arm, though, still blindly, with exaggerated care she placed his
carpet-bag on the grass beside her.

He laid down his cane, took off his high hat and wiped his brow. He
looked at her anxiously. Still she could not lift her blurred eyes, nor
could she check her trembling.

Seeing how she shook, he passed his arm around her shoulder. He
murmured something--what, neither he nor she knew--but the love of his
youth spoke in the murmur, and again fell the silence.

Angy's eyes cleared. She struggled to speak, aghast at the thought that
life itself might be done before ever they could have one hour together
again; but no words came. So much--so much to say! She reached out her
hand to where his rested upon his knee. Their fingers gripped, and each
felt a sense of dreary cheer to know that the touch was speaking what
the tongue could not utter.

Time passed swiftly. The silent hour sped on. The young blades of corn
gossiped gently along the field. Above, the branches of the willow
swished and swayed to the rhythm of the soft, south wind.

"How still, how still it is!" whispered the breeze.

"Rest, rest, rest!" was the lullaby swish of the willow.

The old wife nestled closer