When the man looked up the face was quiet. But something had gone from it--a kind of hard selfishness. The gentleness that touched the lines had left them free. He smiled a little wistfully as he held out his hand for the papers. “I’m ready now. Go ahead.” In ten minutes the papers were all in his hands, and the special was on her way to the wreck. The boy watched it out of sight. Then he turned away and crossed the tracks to the sandy bank, whistling softly--little breaths of sound that broke into lightest bubbles of joy as he climbed the bank. He was going to gather the clover blossoms, with the pink-and-white hearts, to carry home to her. V The man at work in the garden looked up with sudden interest. A light whistle had caught his ear--“That you, Johnny?” He looked out through the vista of currant-bushes and peas to the path that skirted the house. “You there?” he called. The youth, who had come around the corner, nodded casually. “How is mother?” The old man got slowly to his feet, rubbing his knees a little. “All right, I guess. She was out here with me a while ago, but I took her in.--You got some flowers for her?” He glanced at the pink-and-white blossoms in the boy’s hand. “I got them on the bank by the track--Has she had a good day?” “Putty good, I reckon. Putty good.” He was coming down between the peas, limping a little. “They found out who’s to blame--?” The boy was moving toward the house, but he turned back with a little gesture of silence. “She does n’t know?” The older man looked a little guilty. “Well--yes--fact is--I told her. She kind o’ got it out o’ me,” he added in defence. The boy smiled. “She always gets it out of you.--Never mind if it has n’t hurt her.” He turned again toward the house. She was very quiet as he entered the room. The blinds were closed and the little light that came through the shutters made a kind of cool dusk. He crossed to the lounge and laid the flowers by her hand. The delicate fingers reached out and closed over them. “Clover blossoms,” she said softly. “I was wishing today--We used to have them in the yard-before the lawn-mower--” The fingers strayed here and there, touching them gently. “Are they crimson?” “Guess again.” His voice was full of gentle love. “Not crimson, no.... But they ’re not white, either--” “But you ’re warm,” he said. The eyes flashed open and looked at him. “What happened today?” “Father told you--about the accident?” “The accident--Yes. But there was something else--” He laughed quietly. “You always know, don’t you! Was it good or bad!” She hesitated a second. “Good--for you.” “And for all of us, mother.” He bent toward her. “We were talking about it last night--about my going back--if he wanted me.” “Yes--Have you heard from him!” “I ’ve seen him.” “Today!” He nodded. “He came down to look after the accident, and his train stopped a minute at the office. He wants me--I think he needs me--But it ’s for you to say, mother--you and father.”