"And leave Bert? I don't think I would, Mary. I've told James to sit up and watch. Draw the big bolt on top, and keep the lights all on. If I have good luck I shall be back in less than two hours. Good-bye, Mary--dear." The last word lingered with the caressing accent which only long-tried marriage love ever puts into it. The lips of the two met silently, and, drooping, the lady melted away. Jacob Dryver found himself in the automobile, speeding down the avenue to the silent street. He looked back once at the house. Every pane of glass was blazing as if the building were on fire. "You'll find it colder than you expect," observed Mr. Chester. "I brought along Thomas's coat. Put it on--and hold on. Never in one of these before, were you?" "N-no, sir," chattered Jacob Dryver. "Thank you, sir. I n-never was." He clung to the side of the seat desperately. In fact, he was very much frightened. But he would have gone under the heavy wheels before he would have owned it. Spinning through the deserted Beverly streets the automobile took what seemed to him a startling pace. "I'm going slowly till we get out of town," remarked Mr. Chester. "Once on the Manchester road I'll let her out a bit." Jacob made no reply. What had seemed to be fog drenched and drowned him now like driving rain. There had been no wind, but now the powers and principalities of the air were let loose. He gasped for breath, which was driven down his throat. That made him think of Batty, whom, for the moment, he had actually forgotten. When people died--they could not-- Had Batty--by this time--it was so long--should he find that Batty-- "What ails your boy?" asked the half-invisible figure from the depths of its rubber armor. "I had a telegraph," said Jacob, monotonously. "I never was away from home so far--I ain't used to travellin'. I supposed the train would wait for the accident. The telegraph said he was hurt bad. I got it just as the fun'ril was leavin' the house. I had to quit it, corpse 'n' all--for Batty. I ran all the way to the depot. I just got aboard, and here I be becalmed all night--and there is Batty.--His name is Batwing," added the father. "He was named after the uncle I went to bury. But we call him Batty." "Any more children?" inquired Mr. Chester, in the cultivated, compassionate voice which at once attracted and estranged the breaking heart of Jacob Dryver. "We haven't only Batty, sir," he choked. The hand on the lever tightened; the throttle opened; the dark figure in the rubber coat bent, and its muscles turned to iron. The automobile began to rock and fly. It was now whirling out upon the silent, sleeping road that goes by the great houses of the North Shore. "I'll let her out a little," said Mr. Chester, quietly. "Don't worry. We'll get there before you know it."