ould not understand, and
which he knew he could never change, try as he might. Take this very
evening. Here was death in his home. And he was escaping a lot of
anguish, not by praying for Bill's soul or his own forgiveness, but by
the simple process of harnessing a team and dragging a car through the
mud. It was a great game, work was--the one weapon with which to meet
life. This was not a cut and dried philosophy with him, but a glimmer
that, though always suggesting itself but dimly, never failed when put
to the test. Martin felt better. He began to probe a little farther,
albeit with an aimlessness about his questions that almost frightened
him. He asked himself whether he loved Bill, now that he was dead, and
he had to admit that he did not. The boy had always been something other
than he had expected--a disappointment. Did he love anyone? No. Not a
person; not even any longer that lovely Rose of Sharon who had flowered
in his dust for a brief hour. His wife? God Almighty, no. Then who?
Himself? No, his very selfishness had other springs than that. He was
one of those men, not so uncommon either, he surmised, who loved no one
on the whole wide earth.

When he re-entered the house, he found his wife still seated in the
rocker, softly weeping, the tears flowing down her cheeks and dropping
unheeded into her lap. He pitied her.

"I feel as though he didn't die tonight," she mourned, looking at Martin
through full eyes. "He died when he was born, like the first one."

"I know how you feel," said Martin, sympathy in his voice.

"I made him so many promises before he came, but I wasn't able to keep a
single one of them."

"I'm sorry; I wish I could help you in some way."

"Oh, Martin, I know you're not a praying man--but if you could only
learn."

Martin looked at her respectfully but with profound curiosity.

"There must be an answer to all this," Rose went on brokenly. "There
must! Billy is lying in the arms of Jesus now--no pain, only sweet rest.
I believe that."

"I'm glad you have the faith that can put such meaning into it all."

"Martin, I want to pray for strength to bear it."

"Yes, Rose."

"You'll pray with me, won't you?"

"You just said I wasn't a praying man."

"Yes, but I can't pray alone, with him in there alone, too, and you here
with me, scoffing."

"I can't be other than I am, Rose; but you pray, and as you pray I'll
bow my head."

X. INTO THE DUST-BIN

WITH the loss of her b