When the journey was little more than half done, the six bearers stepping with infinite care, Van Brunt began to groan aloud. Uncle Hank was walking at his head, watching his face. “Where hurts you boy? Does it joggle past bearin’? Ought we put you down and rest you a spell?” He failed to catch the whispered reply at first. The bearers halted, and he leaned closer. “No.” Van Brunt motioned feebly with his hand. “Get on, boys ... I want to see the baby, before—” The big fellows carrying the blanket moved ahead, stepping short, watching pitifully. Charley groaned outright at every stride now; Hilda, beside him, moaned, too. Her eyes were so blinded with crying that she did not see the ranch house when it came in sight. Going up the long, tree-lined avenue to the front door, Uncle Hank bent and spoke to her. “Go in ahead, Pettie. Tell your aunt that your father’s bad hurt, and we’re bringing him.” Hilda had a sense of flying, of getting to the house at a single step. It happened that Aunt Val was just coming down the stairs. Hilda cried out her communication as it had been given, and turned back to the bearers, who were toiling up the porch steps. Miss Valeria moved uncertainly into the open door, got a glimpse of what lay in the blankets; her hands went up, she stumbled blindly, and Hank’s arm caught her as she fell. He let her down on the hall couch. Charley went past them, carried for the last time into his own house. “Pettie,” Hank gave the direction over his shoulder, as he followed, “you run find some one to look after auntie.” Jose’s wife was in the kitchen. Hilda caught at her skirts and dragged her toward the front hall, explaining as they went. She left the woman questioning, exclaiming, and flew to the living-room. They had shoved out the couch, and were raising the blankets high, so that the injured man could be laid gently down. This done, they stood about him, seven tall, white-hatted, deep-voiced cowpunchers, afraid to move or speak lest their tones be too loud for sick-room pitch, the creaking of their boots offend. In the silence, the rustling of their big, virile bodies, in the strain of feeling, sounded plain. Something pushed against Hilda in the doorway. It was Burchie, in his soiled playfrock. She took his little grubby hand and led him forward to Uncle Hank. The old man lifted him. “Charley,” he said. Van Brunt’s eyes unclosed. “The baby—here.” A faint motion of his hand indicated a place on the couch. Hank set the child there, and he remained motionless as a small image, only the wondering, distressed blue eyes going from one face to another. Hilda crouched in an inconspicuous heap at the side of the bed, unnoticed; Burch’s little hand reached down and grasped the shoulder of her dress. Van Brunt’s dark head on the pillow moved a bit from side to side. Uncle Hank bent over to try to ease his position. She saw the look which flashed up into the old man’s face as her father said: