in. Your supper is ready."

As he put his horse into its stall and fed it with fodder and corn, he
almost wished that he could prolong the task, for how was he to pass
through the coming ordeal, which was like death to him?

He went into the house, bathed his face in a pan of water, brushed his
long thin hair, carefully adjusted his collar, and put on his coat. As a
rule, farmers did not wear their coats in the house in warm weather, but
Joel had never sat at the table with his wife without having his on. It
was an observance of respect to women which had been handed down to
Joel from conventional forebears, and from which he could not have
departed.

Tilly and the children were at the table. It had grown dark within the
almost windowless cabin, and an oil-lamp furnished the light, the yellow
rays of which fell over the food, which consisted of boiled vegetables,
cornbread, butter, and mush and milk for the children.

Out of respect to Tilly, who always did it in his absence, Joel, when at
home, said grace at the table, and the upturned plates to-night mutely
reminded him of that duty.

It had always been the same simple formula which, also, had descended to
Joel, and over his folded hands to-night he uttered it. Moistening his
dry lips as if to render them pliant, Eperson sent his prayer out into
the sentient mystery which was so relentlessly wrapping him about.

"Loving Father," he prayed, "we thank Thee, this night, for all the
evidence of Thy loving tenderness and care. Bless this food to our
needs. Render us kind and merciful to our neighbors, and, when our
earthly service to Thee is ended, receive us into the grace and peace of
Thy eternal kingdom. Amen."

Eperson forced himself to eat. Under the stress of his emotions his
appetite had departed, and yet he pretended to be enjoying his food.
Tilly was eating with more relish, it seemed to him, than usual, and he
thought he knew the psychological reason for it. He had never seen her
look so buoyantly ethereal as she did to-night. To have described the
change upon her would have been beyond the power of man. She was like an
older sister to her children. Her love for them seemed to issue from her
like some supernal blending of light and music as she bent to adjust
the bib of the younger one, or sweetly to admonish the older in regard
to his too rapid eating of his mush and milk.

"Don't--don't hurry, Joie darling!" her lilting voice produced. "You
don't want