alk.

"Well, I hope this will teach you a lesson, Bobby Wentworth," scolded
the mother, now that after various proddings she had determined to her
satisfaction that none of the boy's bones were broken. "I wish to the
Lord you was back where the hills are so steep there ain't no
automobiles."

Donaldson broke in.

"You were brought up in the country, Mrs. Wentworth?"

"Laws, yes, and lived there most of my life."

"In New England?"

"Berringdon, Vermont."

"Berringdon? Your husband was n't one of the Wentworth boys?"

"He was Jim Wentworth, the oldest"

"Well, well! Then _you_ are Sally Burnham."

"And you," she hesitated, "I do b'lieve you 're Peter Donaldson."

"Yes," he said, "I 'm Peter Donaldson."

The name from her lips took on its boyhood meaning. He shifted the
youngster to his arms and crossing the room held out his hand to her.

"We did n't know each other very well in those days, but from now
on--from now on we 're old friends, are n't we?"

The steel blue eyes grew moist.

"It's a long time," she said, "since I 've seen any one from there."

"Or I. You left--"

"When I was married. Jim came here because his cousin got him a job as
motorman. He done well,--but he was killed by his car just after the
baby was born."

"Killed? That's tough. And it left you all alone with the children?"

"Yes. The road paid us a little, but I was sick and the children were
sick, so it did n't last long."

She was not complaining. It was a bare recital of facts. But it
raised a series of keen incisive thoughts in Donaldson's brain.

Wentworth had been killed. Chance had deprived this woman of her man;
Chance had grabbed at her boy; Chance had sent Donaldson to save the
latter; Chance--Donaldson caught his breath at the possibility the
sequence suggested--Chance may have sent him to offset as far as
possible the husband's death. It was too late, although he felt the
obligation in a new light, for him to give his life for the life of
that other, but there was one other thing he could do. He could play
the father with what he had left of himself. So that when he came to
face Wentworth--he smiled gently at the approaching possibility--he
could hold his head high as he went to meet him.

He had argued to Barstow that he was shirking no responsibilities,--but
what of such unseen responsibilities as this? What of the thousand
others that he should die too soon to realize? It was possible that