ovide for those three.
I want to see the children educated. I want to keep your mother as happy
and peaceful as she now is. She is my mother now--she is also Joel's;
she is the grandmother of my children. Don't you think my prayer will be
answered, John?"

"I know it," he said, suddenly, recalling the compact just made with his
mother. "I know it."

"Then you believe, too," she cried, eagerly, wonderingly.

"Yes, I believe that," he admitted, reluctantly. "Something will
happen--something will turn up. You must never lose faith and hope."

Tilly looked up at the sun. "It is eleven o'clock at least," she said.
"I must be going. I have to get Joel's dinner ready. I shall tell him
about this, of course, and now"--she choked up--"this must be good-by.
How can it be? It doesn't seem possible--that is, _forever_. For, if it
were possible, the God I adore would be a fiend. We are going to meet in
another life. As sure as you and I stand here loving each other as we
do, we are going to be reunited. A stream of spirit will connect us even
while alive. If it were otherwise, there'd be no law and order in the
universe, and law and order are everywhere. Yes, we'll meet again,
someway, somehow, somewhere."

She held out her hands. He took them into his. He was drawing her to
him, the old fire of divine passion filling him, when he felt the
muscles of her fingers stiffen defensively, and she turned her eyes to
the sleeping children.

"No, no! No, my darling," she said, a fluttering sob in her throat, her
eyes filling. "We must be honorable. Good-by. Leave me here with them,
please. I'll let them sleep a moment longer and then take them home."

"Good-by," he said, turning away. The bending branches of the bushes
came between her and him. Like a plodder who has become suddenly blind
he staggered forward. The earth seemed to sink as he trod upon it.
Wild-grape vines whipped his brow and cheeks. Stones slipped and rolled
beneath his feet as he groped along. He was panting like a wild animal
long and closely pursued.

He had turned away from the town's direction. He told himself that he
could not just now meet Cavanaugh and his wife with the meaningless
platitudes of daily life. A rugged, wooded hill rose before him. He
paused, rested awhile, and then began to climb its steep side. Half-way
to the summit, he stopped and looked about him.

There lay the growing town where his boyhood was spent. There loomed up
the graveyard, wit