Mrs. Gooch was Oliver’s only sister, and had married Horace Gooch when in her teens. At thirty-eight she was still wondering if she was really good enough for him and if he had not made a mistake in marrying her when there were so many other girls he might have had for the asking. Sometimes Horace made her feel that he could have done better. At any rate, she was never allowed to be in doubt as to what he thought of all the other Baxters, living or dead. They were as “common as dirt.” At first it was difficult for her to be ashamed of Oliver without being equally disgusted with herself, but as time went on and she became more and more of a Gooch this irritating sensitiveness eased off into a state of contemptuous pity for her insignificant brother. His marriage to a toll-gate keeper’s daughter sent him down several pegs in her estimation, notwithstanding Mr. Gooch’s sarcastic contention that Oliver had wedded far above his station—indeed, he went on to say, he didn’t believe it possible for Oliver to find any one beneath his station, no matter how hard he tried or how far he looked. And yet when word came by wire that there was to be a death in the family, Ida Gooch overlooked everything and hastened to her brother’s side, drawn not so much by sisterly affection as by the desire to take an active and public part in any family sorrow or bereavement. Having looked forward, over eighteen miles of wind-swept highways, to a house of grief, she was not only shocked but secretly annoyed to find that life instead of death had visited the humble home of her brother. She knew she would never hear the last of it from Horace, who hated babies. They had no children of their own. But now that she was here, she was determined to make the most of the situation. “I shall take charge here,” she announced to Mr. Sikes. “Is this the way upstairs?” Mr. Sikes nodded. “But if I was you,” he said, “I’d hold my horses.” “What do you mean by that?” “I guess you’d better ask Serepty Grimes before you begin to take charge here,” said he grimly. “Serepty who?” “Grimes. She’s running this house at present. Her husband used to run the Rumley sawmill before he died. Serepty’s running it now.” “That doesn’t cut any figure with me,” announced Mrs. Gooch firmly. “I am going up to Mary’s room—her name is Mary, isn’t it?—to see what there is to do for—” “Wait a minute, Ida,” interrupted her husband. “I wouldn’t go busting into that room until I found out whether I was wanted or not.” “Let her go, man,” cried Mr. Sikes, eagerly. “But if she was my wife—and thank God, I’m a single man—I’d stand at the foot of the stairs to ketch her when she comes down.” “Do you mean to say that my own brother would lay violent hands—”