feet and pushed him off to his bedroom.

When she had closed the door on his wail she returned and laid the
box on the shelf. Then she hurried to gather up the shoes. Something
on her hand as she put it out for the sodden shoes caught her eye
and she straightened, holding her hand up where the feeble light
from the shelf caught it.

"I've cut myself," she said aloud. "There's blood on my hand. It
must 'a' been on those lacings of Tobeys."

The old woman in the corner roused. "Blood!" she screeched.
"Olga! Blood on his hands!"

Mrs. Brenner jumped. "You old screech-owl!" she cried. She wiped her
hand quickly on her dirty apron and held it up again to see the cut.
But there was no cut on her hand! Where had that blood come from?
From Tobey's shoes?

And who was it that had screamed on the hill? She felt herself
enwrapped in a mist of puzzling doubts.

She snatched up the shoes, searching them with agonized eyes. But
the wet and pulpy mass had no stain. Only the wet sands and the
slimy water-weeds of the beach clung to them.

Then where had the blood come from? It was at this instant that she
became conscious of shouts on the hillside. She limped to the door
and held it open a crack. Very faintly she could see the bobbing
lights of torches. A voice carried down to her.

"Here's where I found his hat. That's why I turned off back of these
trees. And right there I found his body!"

"Are you sure he's dead?" quavered another voice.

"Stone-dead!'"

Olga Brenner shut the door. But she did not leave it immediately.
She stood leaning against it, clutching the wet shoes, her staring
eyes glazing.

Tobey was strong. He had flown into childish rages sometimes and had
hurt her with his undisciplined strength. Where was Mart? Tobey had
seen him. Perhaps they had fought. Her mind refused to go further.
But little subtle undercurrents pressed in on her. Tobey hated and
feared his father. And Mart was always enraged at the sight of his
half-witted son. What _had_ happened? And yet no matter what had
occurred, Tobey had not been on the hill. His shoes bore mute
testimony to that. And the scream had been on the slope. She frowned.

Her body more bent than ever, she hobbled slowly over to the stove
and laid the shoes on the big shelf above it, spreading them out to
the rising heat. She had barely arranged them when there was again
the sound of approaching footsteps. These feet, however, did not
stumble. They were heavy a