acting,
twisting, a queer dryness in her throat, she opened the door as they
stopped, her hand shading the lamp against the sudden inrush of wind and
rain. "In there, through the parlor," she said dully, indicating the
new room and thinking, bitterly, as she followed them, that now, when
it could mean nothing to Billy, Martin would offer no objections to its
being given over to him.

The scuffling of feet, the low, matter-of-fact orders of a directing
voice: "Easy now, boys--all together, lift. Watch out; pull that
sheet back up over him," and a brawny, work-stooped man saying to her
awkwardly: "I wouldn't look at him if I was you, Mrs. Wade, till the
undertaker fixes him up," and she was once more alone.

As if transfixed, she continued to stand, looking beyond the lamp,
beyond the bed on which her son's large figure was outlined by the
sheet, beyond the front door which faced her, beyond--into the night,
looking for Martin, waiting for him to come home to his boy. She asked
herself again and again how she had been so restrained when her Billy
had been carried in. After what seemed interminable ages, she heard
heavy steps on the back porch and knew that her husband had returned
at last. He brought in with him a gust of wind that caused the lamp to
smoke. She held it with both hands, afraid that she might drop it, and
carrying it to the dining-room table set it down slowly, looking at him.
He seemed huger than ever with his hulk sinking into the gray darkness
behind him. There was something elephantine about him as he stood there,
soaked to the skin, bending forward a little, breathing slowly and
deeply, his fine nostrils distending with perfect regularity, his face
in the dim light, yellow, with the large lines almost black. He was
hatless and his tawny-gray hair was flat with wetness, coming down
almost to his eyes, so clear and far-seeing.

"What's the matter with the lights? Fuse blown out?" he asked, spitting
imaginary rain out of his mouth.

Rose did not answer.

"Awful night for visiting," Martin announced roughly, as he took off his
coat. "But it was lucky I went, or all would have been pretty bad
for me. Do you know, that rascal was delivering the wheat to the
elevator--wheat on which I held a chattel--and I got to Tom Mayer just
as he was figuring up the weights. You should have seen Johnson's face
when I came in. He knew I had him cornered. 'Here,' I said, 'what's up?'
And that lying rascal turned as wh