Sitting beside him in his mud-splashed car, with the mountains on either side, the sky above, and the road before them, Julie was almost as simple, direct, and deep-rooted now as he was himself. Ahead, along the Easter road, the Chapin man was dead, the mother and the son desperately ill. Sorrow and disaster awaited them: suffering people and a distracted house. Here was something that they might do, work for them down at the heart of the world, work for them that was natural, sincere, and pitiful. The doctor glanced down from time to time at Julie, looking at her clear quiet profile. Once he asked, “What became of little Bixby?” She turned her still eyes upon him and answered simply, “They arrested him for not answering his draft call. He was just fixing to give himself up; they came before he could; but he’s all right.” “All right?” he asked. “Yes,” she nodded. “Things can’t get at him now like they used to. They can’t touch him now--he’s safe, he’s found himself, he’s out in the deep channel like I am.” A little later, the doctor brought his car to a standstill before the Chapins’ dooryard. The log-house, small and weathered, looked peaceful enough on the outside, with the September sun flowing over it, a white chicken or two walking its grass, and little borders of late flowers running down to the gate; but inside human beings were at grips with death. Old Doc’ Franklin, long and awkward and loose-jointed, a little tired-looking about the eyes, but still going, picked up his worn bag and swung himself out. “Come on, Julie,” he said, “here’s our job.” Was it the old doctor, or was it life itself, holding out a hand to Julie Rose, there at the end of the Easter road? Printed by McGrath-Sherrill Press, Boston Bound by Boston Bookbinding Co., Cambridge TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES: Italicized text is surrounded by underscores: _italics_. Obvious typographical errors have been corrected. Inconsistencies in hyphenation have been standardized. Archaic or variant spelling has been retained.