Two shots ring out. A shriek, a puff of smoke: two forms lie side by side, on the platform, and an agonizing woman flings herself on the bleeding breast of the last Wilson Wimberley Wibird--_too late!_ It sounds ludicrous: it was tragic. Weak minds can be desperate as well as strong ones, and poor Wilson, between drink and diseased vanity, was very near the edge of mania. So he hung about the station at every train hour; haggard, sodden, miserable; and really, the wonder is that no tragedy came of it. One might so easily have come, had it not been for that blessed rain. The farmers had been saying for a month that what we wanted now was a nice warm rain. We got it, at the end of this week. It rained, and rained, and rained; one day, two days, three days. Not in showers or spurts, but in a steady, even downpour, without haste and without rest. For the first day, Cyrus held out bravely, tied up its roses and sped on its errands in waterproof and umbrella, hung about the station in mackintosh and rubber boots. The second day, the elders stayed indoors, looking anxiously out of window, listening eagerly for sound of hoofs or wheels; only young Cyrus patrolled the Street, and hung about the station. By evening of the third day, pretty much everybody had abandoned the Quest of the Duke, collective Cyrus expressing the opinion that no duke that ever was hatched was worth spoiling all your clothes and getting pneumonia for. It was on the evening of this third day that John Tucker gave up and took to his bed, his rheumatism taking an inflammatory turn. Kitty, alarmed at his condition, sent Amos Barrell off to Tinkham for Dr. Pettijohn, with rash orders not to come back without him. Amos found the doctor out of town, not to return till nine o'clock; obeyed orders, bestowed Dan in the livery-stable, and went to the "Movies." Briefly, when the 8:30 train was due, it was Kitty and Pilot who met it. * * * * *