We were eighteen when the accident happened to Peter Lane. He was working about a shaft, as he had done perhaps a thousand times before, when some loose end of his clothing lapped around it. He clutched the shaft and whirled with it until the strength of his arms gave way; then his body flew out and his head struck a beam. . . . Outside the mill-wheel placidly sprayed its mist of jewels as from the hand of a fairy prince. I need not follow the events of the next year or so further than to say that my father developed a habit of putting on his good clothes in the evening and brushing his shoes, and walking over to see whether Mrs. Lane might not need some help with the affairs of the farm. Jack found me one evening in September cutting firewood in the uncleared portion of our farm up by the big pine. The sun was almost setting; it hung like a blood-red globe through an avenue of maple trees, and its slanting light struck the autumn foliage with a wizardry of color and beauty. Jack sat down on a log and when I paused in my work he said, "You're too industrious, Frank; if you are not careful you'll die rich. Come over here; I want to talk to you." I took a seat at his side, and for a minute or two he punched the earth with a stick, as though uncertain how to open his subject. "I guess you're as much awake as I am, Frank," he said at length, "so you know what's on the books." "You mean about my father?" I was going to add, "and your mother," but I stopped; someway it seemed out of place. But Jack filled it in,--"And my mother." Then we both sat silent for awhile. "Has he said anything about it to you?" I ventured, "He hasn't mentioned it to me." "No," said Jack. Then, with one of his unexpected touches of humor,--"I'm not sure that he knows about it yet. But mother does." "Well, it's all right, isn't it?" I said, after we had had our laugh. "Your mother has been pretty much a mother to Marjorie and me since our own left us. She's O.K. I'm not complaining." "Neither am I," Jack agreed, "so far as they are concerned. But just how about us? We've got to get out." "Why?" Jack turned his full blue eyes on me with a sort of pity. "Do you think Marjorie is going to play second fiddle to a new mother? You don't know your sister, Frank." In a moment I knew he was right. He had not asked me if I thought that Jack would play second fiddle to a new father, but that, too, may have been in his mind. "Well, what are we to do about it?" "Go west!" he said, emphatically. "Go west! I am beginning to think it's the only thing for a young fellow to do, anyway. What is there here for us? Drudge away in the mill, seven to six, seven to six, seven to six, seven to six, week in, month in, year in; then, some day, caught on a shaft, and they stop the mill just long enough to untangle your remains. And that is life! By God, Frank, it's _not_ life--as I see it--as I'm going to see it!"