e to kill. And his reason, turned traitor at last, counselled
that he should kill, that it was the only thing left for him to do.

He was aroused by a servant calling to him through the trees that the
carriage was waiting. He answered. Then, looking straight before him, he
discovered his brother. He had forgotten it was his brother. It had been
only a thing the moment before. He began to talk, and as he talked the
way became clear to him. His reason had not turned traitor. The brute in
him had merely orientated his reason.

"You are no earthly good, Al," he said. "You know that. You've made
Mary's life a hell. You are a curse to your children. And you have not
made life exactly a paradise for the rest of us."

"There's no use your talking," Al interjected. "I'm not going to stay
here."

"That's what I'm coming to," George continued. "You don't have to stay
here." (Al's face brightened, and he involuntarily made a movement, as
though about to start toward the carriage.) "On the other hand, it is
not necessary that you should return with me. There is another way."

George's hand went to his hip pocket and appeared with a revolver. It
lay along his palm, the butt toward Al, and toward Al he extended it. At
the same time, with his head, he indicated the near-by thicket.

"You can't bluff me," Al snarled.

"It is not a bluff, Al. Look at me. I mean it. And if you don't do it
for yourself, I shall have to do it for you."

They faced each other, the proffered revolver still extended. Al debated
for a moment, then his eyes blazed. With a quick movement he seized the
revolver.

"My God! I'll do it," he said. "I'll show you what I've got in me."

George felt suddenly sick. He turned away. He did not see his brother
enter the thicket, but he heard the passage of his body through the
leaves and branches.

"Good-bye, Al," he called.

"Good-bye," came from the thicket.

George felt the sweat upon his forehead. He began mopping his face with
his handkerchief. He heard, as from a remote distance, the voice of
the servant again calling to him that the carriage was waiting. The
woodpecker dropped down through the mottled sunshine and lighted on the
trunk of a tree a dozen feet away. George felt that it was all a dream,
and yet through it all he felt supreme justification. It was the right
thing to do. It was the only thing.

His whole body gave a spasmodic start, as though the revolver had been
fired. It was the voice of