They fairly shrivelled in their skins as they stood beside the open grave and saw, through blurred eyes, the last of Uncle Joe. Both of Mr. Bingle's ears were frozen quite stiff. A much be-furred undertaker's assistant rubbed snow on them with what seemed to be unnecessary vigour and told him to have 'em looked after when he got back to New York. They were ugly things, those ears of his, and Mr. Bingle was acutely conscious of their size and colour as he sat at his desk and waited for word to come to "the office." A sudden and almost insupportable itching of his heels filled him with fresh alarm, and for one ghastly moment he forgot his ears and his crime. Were his heels frost-bitten? If so--then, what was to become of him? "Get your uncle buried all right?" inquired his left-hand neighbour, suddenly speaking out of the void. Mr. Bingle's reply was a guilty, bewildered start. The man went on: "What did he die of?" "Oh," said Mr. Bingle hazily, "most assuredly." "I said, what ailed him?" "Why, he was dead," said Mr. Bingle, vaguely surprised by the other's obtuseness. "That's why we buried him." "I see," said the questioner, after staring hard for a moment. He edged a little farther away from Mr. Bingle and shot a swift glance of apprehension in the direction of the door. "I couldn't help being late," ventured Mr. Bingle, his first apology in fifteen years. "My wife is sick, Jenkins--mighty sick. The doctor couldn't come at once, so I had to wait. She--" "Say," said Jenkins nervously, "the old man didn't die of anything catching, did he?" "Catching?" "I mean contagious. Your wife hasn't caught anything from him, has she? If she has, you oughtn't to come around here carrying--" "He died of old age," said Mr. Single stiffly. "Sure?" "Of course." "Well, we all catch that if we live long enough," said Jenkins, considerably relieved. "How old was he?" "Seventy-three." "Leave anything?"