iting to get at the trunks. The engine panted heavily, and
the fireman dodged in and out among the wheels with his yellow torch and
long oil-can, snapping the spindle boxes. The young Bostonian, one of the
dead sculptor's pupils who had come with the body, looked about him
helplessly. He turned to the banker, the only one of that black, uneasy,
stoop-shouldered group who seemed enough of an individual to be
addressed.

"None of Mr. Merrick's brothers are here?" he asked uncertainly.

The man with the red beard for the first time stepped up and joined the
others. "No, they have not come yet; the family is scattered. The body
will be taken directly to the house." He stooped and took hold of one of
the handles of the coffin.

"Take the long hill road up, Thompson, it will be easier on the horses,"
called the liveryman as the undertaker snapped the door of the hearse
and prepared to mount to the driver's seat.

Laird, the red-bearded lawyer, turned again to the stranger: "We didn't
know whether there would be any one with him or not," he explained. "It's
a long walk, so you'd better go up in the hack." He pointed to a single
battered conveyance, but the young man replied stiffly: "Thank you, but I
think I will go up with the hearse. If you don't object," turning to the
undertaker, "I'll ride with you."

They clambered up over the wheels and drove off in the starlight up the
long, white hill toward the town. The lamps in the still village were
shining from under the low, snow-burdened roofs; and beyond, on every
side, the plains reached out into emptiness, peaceful and wide as the
soft sky itself, and wrapped in a tangible, white silence.

When the hearse backed up to a wooden sidewalk before a naked,
weather-beaten frame house, the same composite, ill-defined group that
had stood upon the station siding was huddled about the gate. The front
yard was an icy swamp, and a couple of warped planks, extending from the
sidewalk to the door, made a sort of rickety footbridge. The gate hung on
one hinge, and was opened wide with difficulty. Steavens, the young
stranger, noticed that something black was tied to the knob of the front
door.

The grating sound made by the casket, as it was drawn from the hearse,
was answered by a scream from the house; the front door was wrenched
open, and a tall, corpulent woman rushed out bareheaded into the snow and
flung herself upon the coffin, shrieking: "My boy, my boy! And this is
how yo