He ran wildly to the outer door. Bill Winters, fortunately sober, was driving slowly by. "Bill!" "What's the matter, Dave?" looking into the boy's white face. "Your ma ain't sick, is she?" David's lips quivered, but seemed almost unable to articulate. "She's dead," he finally whispered. "I'll send Zine right over," exclaimed Bill, slapping the reins briskly across the drooping neck of his horse. Very soon the little house was filled to overflowing with kind and sympathetic neighbors who had come to do all that had to be done. David sat on the back doorstep until M'ri came; before the expression in his eyes she felt powerless to comfort him. "The doctor says your mother died in her sleep," she told him. "She didn't suffer any." He made no reply. Oppressed by the dull pain for which there is no ease, he wandered from the house to the garden, and from the garden back to the house throughout the day. At sunset Barnabas drove over. "I shall stay here to-night, Barnabas," said M'ri, "but I want you to drive back and get some things. I've made out a list. Janey will know where to find them." "Sha'n't I take Dave back to stay to-night?" he suggested. M'ri hesitated, and looked at David. "No," he said dully, following Barnabas listlessly down the path to the road. Barnabas, keen, shrewd, and sharp at a bargain, had a heart that ever softened to motherless children. "Dave," he said gently, "your ma won't never hev to wash no more, and she'll never be sick nor tired agen." It was the first leaven to his loss, and he held tight to the horny hand of his comforter. After Barnabas had driven away there came trudging down the road the little, lithe figure of an old man, who was carrying a large box. His mildly blue, inquiring eyes looked out from beneath their hedge of shaggy eyebrows. His hair and his beard were thick and bushy. Joe Forbes maintained that Uncle Larimy would look no different if his head were turned upside down. "David," he said softly, "I've brung yer ma some posies. She liked my yaller roses, you know. I'm sorry my laylocks are gone. They come early this year." "Thank you, Uncle Larimy." A choking sensation warned David to say no more. "Things go 'skew sometimes, Dave, but the sun will shine agen," reminded the old man, as he went on into the house. Later, when sundown shadows had vanished and the first glimmer of the stars radiated from a pale sky, Joe came over. David felt no thrill at sight of his hero. The halo was gone. He only remembered with a dull ache that the half dollar had brought his mother none of the luxuries he had planned to buy for her. "David," said the young ranchman, his deep voice softened, "my mother died when I was younger than you are, but you won't have a stepmother to make life unbearable for you." The boy looked at him with inscrutable eyes. "Don't you want to go back with me to the ranch, David? You can learn to ride and shoot."