"Won't you speak to me?" she sobbed. "I didn't mean to, but I had to. You got to understand. I had to." He went to the table and commenced to tap vigorously on the key. She ran across and grasped at his arm. "What you telling them?" she demanded wildly. "Why, Sally!" he said. "What's the matter with you?--To send another man now Joe is gone." Truths emerged from his measureless relief, lending themselves to words. He trembled again for a moment. "If I hadn't stayed! If I'd let them smash! When all along it only needed Joe to keep all those people from getting killed." He sat down, caught her in his arms, drew her to his knee, and held her close. "You ain't going to scold?" she asked wonderingly. He shook his head. He couldn't say any more just then; but when his tears touched her face she seemed to understand and to be content. So, while the boy slept, they waited together for someone to take Joe's place. FOOTNOTE: [6] Copyright, 1920, by The Metropolitan Magazine Company. Copyright, 1921, by Charles Wadsworth Camp. THE PARTING GENIUS[7] #By# HELEN COALE CREW From _The Midland_ "_The parting genius is with sighing sent._" #Milton's# _Hymn on the Nativity._ It was high noon, blue and hot. The little town upon the southern slope of the hills that shut in the great plain glared white in the intense sunlight. The beds of the brooks in the valleys that cut their way through the hill-clefts were dry and dusty; and the sole shade visible lay upon the orchard floors, where the thick branches above cast blue-black shadows upon the golden tangle of grasses at their feet. A soft murmur of hidden creature-things rose like an invisible haze from earth, and nothing moved in all the horizon save the black kites high in the blue air and the white butterflies over the drowsy meadows. The poppies that flecked the yellow wheat fields drooped heavily, spilling the wine of summer from their cups. Nature stood at drowsy-footed pause, reluctant to take up again the vital whirr of living. At the edge of the orchard, near the dusty highway, under a huge misshapen olive tree sat a boy, still as a carven Buddha save that his eyes stood wide, full of dreams. His was a sensitive face, thoughtful beyond his childish years, full of weariness when from time to time he closed his eyes, full of dark brooding when the lids lifted again. Presently he rose to his feet, and his two hands clenched tightly into fists. "I hate it!" he muttered vehemently. At his side the grasses stirred and a portion of the blue shadow of the tree detached itself and became the shadow of a man. "Hate?" questioned a golden, care-free voice at his side. "Thou'rt overyoung to hate. What is it thou dost hate?"