“Oh, I hope—I hope she won’t!” This was surely Lucy’s voice, hushed and tearful. “She may have seen him lying dead, all torn by the explosion. It would be dreadful for her to remember that.” “Well, thank God he is dead!” Nell spoke stoutly, as one expectant of rebuke. “The life we have led has been enough to kill us all. Whatever happens, things must get better now.” “Oh, hush!” imploringly from Lucy. “It is wrong—it must be wrong to talk like that.” “I don’t see why,” combatively from Nell. “God must have arranged it all. And when you’ve carried a burden that’s too big for you, it can’t be wrong to be thankful when He takes it away.” “But think of Mother!” Lucy’s whisper was broken with tears. “I do think of her. And I know she is thankful too. My dear, you are thankful yourself. Why disguise it? It isn’t wrong to be thankful.” Nell spoke with vigorous decision. “If only _she_ gets over this—and I don’t see why she shouldn’t, for it’s only shock, nothing else—why, all our troubles will be over. The inquest was the simplest thing in the world—nothing but sympathy and condolences, no tiresome questions at all. I’m ashamed of you, Lucy, for having so little spirit. Don’t you see what it means to us? Why, we’re free—we’re free—we’re free!” To which, sighing, Lucy could only answer, “It doesn’t seem right. And she hasn’t got over it yet, and even if she does——” “Which she will!” Nell’s voice arose above a whisper and ran with confidence. “Which she shall and will! How I would like to know what brought her there! I wonder if she will ever tell us.” “I wonder,” murmured Lucy. * * * * * Thereafter for a space there was silence, and then there began that gradual groping towards the light which comes to a brain awakening. Who was it who was lying dead among the Stones? And why were they all so thankful? Then at last she opened her eyes to the soft sunshine of late autumn and awoke from her long, trance-like sleep. Someone rose to minister to her, and she saw the white-haired mother with her patient eyes bending over her. She smiled upon her with a great tenderness. “So you are awake!” she said, and Frances knew that she was glad. “Don’t try to move too quickly! Just wait till your strength comes back!” “Am I ill then?” Frances asked her, wondering. And she answered gently, “No, dear. Only tired. You will be quite all right presently. Just lie still!” So Frances lay still and pondered, fitting the puzzle piece by piece, slowly, painfully, till at length with returning memory the picture was complete. But who was lying dead among the Stones? And why—oh, why—were they thankful? She could not ask the quiet woman by her side. The sad face bent over her work somehow held her silent, so deep were its lines of suffering. But the need to know was strong upon her. Someone was lying dead. Someone had been killed. Who? Oh, who? And what had caused that frightful explosion up there among the Stones?