his eyes on the cab disappearing in the gloom. He had stood
that way for several minutes when a small hand was slipped into his from
behind, and, looking around, he saw the soiled face and matted hair of
Dora Boyles.

"Brother John," she faltered, "has Tilly left you--really--really left
you?"

He dropped her hand and shoved her from him. "Go home!" he cried. "Go
home, and don't bother me!"

She fell back a yard or so and stood staring at him. "I won't go till
you tell me," she said, stubbornly. "I started over here this morning to
show Tilly my doll and get her to help me dress it. I saw that
crazy-looking old man come in a cab and take her and her trunk away. She
was white--oh, she was as white as a sheet, and so pitiful-looking!"

"Go home, I tell you! Go home!" John gulped and snarled like a man
goaded at once by grief and physical pain. "Go home, I tell you! Leave
me alone!"

"I suppose that means she _has_ left," the child reasoned aloud. "Well,
brother John, I'm sorry. I'm sorry, because I liked her awfully well.
But I'm not surprised. Aunt Jane told your ma yesterday--and it made her
mad. My! didn't the old girl rip and snort? Aunt Jane told her this
thing would happen sooner or later. She said no woman alive could stay
cooped up in a little box like this very long and not have a single soul
go near her, and you off all day."

John laid his hand roughly on the child's shoulder and smothered an
oath of fury. "You go home!" he panted. "If you don't, I'll--"

"You'll do nothing!" The child smiled fearlessly. "Your bark is worse
than your bite, brother John. But I'm going. I'll come back, though.
I'll be over to clean up and cook something for you. You won't come back
to our old shack, I know."

When she had left he went into the cottage, but he did not light the gas
again. The darkness seemed more suitable to his mood. He sat down on the
edge of his and Tilly's bed. His massive hand sank into her pillow. It
was past his supper hour, but he had no desire to eat. The sheer thought
of the kitchen where his young wife had worked, somehow suggested her
death. A little round metal clock on the mantel was ticking sharply. He
got up and wound it, as usual, at that hour. He went into the
sitting-room. Here he sat down, lurched forward in unconscious weakness,
and then, swearing impatiently, he steadied himself. He remained there
only a minute. Rising, he went into the dining-room, felt about, as a
blind man might