should go back to town, returning late that
night to pick up Joe at a lonely point on the road, and to drive him to
a railroad station. But, as it happened, he went back that afternoon.

He had told Schwitter he would be at the hospital, and the message found
him there. Wilson was holding his own, conscious now and making a hard
fight. The message from Schwitter was very brief:--

"Something has happened, and Tillie wants you. I don't like to trouble
you again, but she--wants you."

K. was rather gray of face by that time, having had no sleep and little
food since the day before. But he got into the rented machine again--its
rental was running up; he tried to forget it--and turned it toward
Hillfoot. But first of all he drove back to the Street, and walked
without ringing into Mrs. McKee's.

Neither a year's time nor Mrs. McKee's approaching change of state had
altered the "mealing" house. The ticket-punch still lay on the hat-rack
in the hall. Through the rusty screen of the back parlor window one
viewed the spiraea, still in need of spraying. Mrs. McKee herself was in
the pantry, placing one slice of tomato and three small lettuce leaves
on each of an interminable succession of plates.

K., who was privileged, walked back.

"I've got a car at the door," he announced, "and there's nothing so
extravagant as an empty seat in an automobile. Will you take a ride?"

Mrs. McKee agreed. Being of the class who believe a boudoir cap the
ideal headdress for a motor-car, she apologized for having none.

"If I'd known you were coming I would have borrowed a cap," she said.
"Miss Tripp, third floor front, has a nice one. If you'll take me in my
toque--"

K. said he'd take her in her toque, and waited with some anxiety,
having not the faintest idea what a toque was. He was not without other
anxieties. What if the sight of Tillie's baby did not do all that he
expected? Good women could be most cruel. And Schwitter had been very
vague. But here K. was more sure of himself: the little man's voice had
expressed as exactly as words the sense of a bereavement that was not a
grief.

He was counting on Mrs. McKee's old fondness for the girl to bring them
together. But, as they neared the house with its lanterns and tables,
its whitewashed stones outlining the drive, its small upper window
behind which Joe was waiting for night, his heart failed him, rather. He
had a masculine dislike for meddling, and yet--Mrs. McKee had suddenly