Paul swallowed a lump in his throat, mutely jerked his head toward his room. “I think--I think father's dead,” he said, simply. “Dead? Dead?” the woman gasped, incredulously. She stared blankly at her nephew, and then, holding her unbuttoned nightgown at the neck, she strode across the corridor into Paul's room. He followed to the threshold, and dumbly watched her as she made a quick examination of the body. She drew herself up, uttered a little scream, and came to him wringing her hands. “Oh, God will punish us!” she said. “The Almighty will throw a blight on this house! He's gone, an' his last words was a curse on your ma, an' on me for spoilin' 'er. O God--God, have mercy! An' he went with revenge in his heart an' hate in his soul. Oh, Rafe's gone--Rafe's gone!” Amanda stood leaning against the wall moaning and ejaculating bits of prayers. The door of Mrs. Rundel's room opened, and with her hair rolled up in bits of paper she peered out. “What is it?” she inquired, peevishly. “What's the matter? Gone? Did you say he was gone? What if he _has_ gone? He's been threatening to leave all summer. He'll be back. You can count on that. He knows a good thing when he sees it, and he'll lie around here till he dies of old age or dries up an' is blown away.” “No, he won't be back!” Paul strode to her and stood coldly staring at her. “He's dead. He died of a broken heart, an' you done it--you an' Jeff Warren between you.” “Dead--dead, you say?” And, as if to make sure, Mrs. Rundel stalked stiffly across the corridor to Ralph's body and bent over it. They saw her raise one of the limp hands and pass her own over the pallid brow. Then, without a word, she drew herself erect and came back to her son and sister. Her face was white and rigid; the coming wrinkles in her cheeks and about her mouth seemed deeper than ever before. She faced Paul, a blended expression of fear and dogged defiance in her eyes. “Don't you ever _dare_ to--to talk to me like you did just now,” she said, fiercely. “I won't stand it. You are too young a boy to dictate to me.” “I may be that,” he snarled, “but I'll dictate to somebody else if I'm hung for it. You hear me--if I'm _hung_ for it!” She shrank under this bitter onslaught. She seemed to waver a moment, then she went into her room, lighted her candle, and began to dress. Her sister followed and stood beside her. “Don't take on,” Amanda said. “Don't go an' fancy it is yore fault. Paul is out o' his head with grief an' don't know what he's sayin'. Rafe was a sick, dyin' man, anyway; his mind was unhinged; that was plain by the way he suspicioned you. Now, I'll git breakfast an' attend to everything; don't set in to cryin' an' make yourself sick; what is done is done, an' can't be helped.” CHAPTER XIV