hat her boy sat that day among the blessed company of heaven. He
himself believed that Jim had gone forgiven into whatever lay behind the
veil we call death, had gone shriven and clean before the Judge who knew
the urge of youth and life. He did not fear for Jim. He only missed him.

He walked around the block that night, a stooped commonplace figure, the
dog at his heels. Now and then he spoke to him, for companionship.
At the corner he stopped and looked along the side street toward the
Livingstone house. And as he looked he sighed. Jim and Nina, and now
Elizabeth. Jim and Nina were beyond his care now. He could do no more.
But what could he do for Elizabeth? That, too, wasn't that beyond him?
He stood still, facing the tragedy of his helplessness, beset by vague
apprehensions. Then he went on doggedly, his hands clasped behind him,
his head sunk on his breast.

He lay awake for a long time that night, wondering whether he and Dick
had been quite fair to Elizabeth. She should, he thought, have been
told. Then, if Dick's apprehensions were justified, she would have had
some preparation. As it was--Suppose something turned up out there,
something that would break her heart?

He had thought Margaret was sleeping, but after a time she moved and
slipped her hand into his. It comforted him. That, too, was life. Very
soon now they would be alone together again, as in the early days before
the children came. All the years and the struggle, and then back where
they started. But still, thank God, hand in hand.

Ever since the night of Jim's death Mrs. Sayre had been a constant
visitor to the house. She came in, solid, practical, and with an
everyday manner neither forcedly cheerful nor too decorously mournful,
which made her very welcome. After the three first days, when she
had practically lived at the house, there was no necessity for small
pretensions with her. She knew the china closet and the pantry, and the
kitchen. She had even penetrated to Mr. Wheeler's shabby old den on
the second floor, and had slept a part of the first night there on the
leather couch with broken springs which he kept because it fitted his
body.

She was a kindly woman, and she had ached with pity. And, because of her
usual detachment from the town and its affairs, the feeling that she
was being of service gave her a little glow of content. She liked the
family, too, and particularly she liked Elizabeth. But after she had
seen Dick and Elizabet