people of slow brain, this startling break in the routine of his daily
life simply set him wondering. He moved round the room, and, without
being aware of his purpose, lifted the curtain of turkey red, which
served as a door to the rough larder, and peered in. Then, as he let
the curtain fall again, something stirred within him. He turned
towards the inner room, and his mild voice called--

"Jess."

His answer was a hollow echo that somehow jarred his nerves. But he
called again--

"Jess."

Again came the echo. Then Vada's small face appeared round the
door-casing.

"Mom-ma gone hoss-ridin'," she reminded him.

For an instant Scipio's face flushed. Then it paled icily under its
tan. His brain was struggling to grasp something which seemed to be
slowly enveloping him, but which his honest heart would not let him
believe. He stared stupidly at Vada's dirty face. Then, as the child
withdrew to her play, he suddenly crossed the room to the curtained
bedroom doorway. He passed through, and the flimsy covering fell to
behind him.

For a space the music of childish voices was the only sound to break
the stillness. The hum of buzzing insects seemed to intensify the
summer heat. For minutes no movement came from the bedroom. It was
like the dread silence before a storm.

A strange sound came at last. It was something between a moan and the
pained cry of some mild-spirited animal stricken to death. It had no
human semblance, and yet--it came from behind the dingy print curtain
over the bedroom doorway.

A moment later the curtain stirred and the ghastly face of Scipio
suddenly appeared. He moved out into the living-room and almost fell
into the Windsor chair which had last been occupied by his wife. A
sheet of notepaper was in his shaking hand, and his pale eyes were
staring vacantly at it. He was not reading. He had read. And that
which he had read had left him dazed and scarcely comprehending. He
sat thus for many minutes. And not once did he stir a muscle, or lift
his eyes from their fixed contemplation.

A light breeze set the larder curtain fluttering. Scipio started. He
stared round apprehensively. Then, as though drawn by a magnet, his
eyes came back to the letter in his hand, and once more fixed
themselves upon the bold handwriting. But this time there was
intelligence in his gaze. There was intelligence, fear, despair,
horror; every painful emotion was struggling for uppermost place in
mind and heart. He