I urged him from time to time, with what directness I dared, to let me take him into the hospital. But he had never left the farm and his wife alone overnight in all these years. Then one day he sent for me. He would go, he said, if I could arrange for him. A March snow lay on the fields the day before he was to go, and all that day, at odd times, I would see him creeping like a shadow about his place: to the hen-coops, up to the line fence, out to the apple tree in the meadow, taking a last look at things. It was quite impossible for me to work that day. The next morning the four boys, on their way to school, went down ahead of me to say good-bye. They filed in, shook hands bravely, fighting back their tears, and playing fine the game of bluff with him, though the little fellow, born the summer the colt was born, nearly spoiled it all. He is a dear impulsive child and had frankly been Joel’s favorite. “I’ve taken the eveners off the disk harrow,” he was saying as he came out to the sleigh. “I gave the kittens a bed of fresh rowan. I drove a nail under the shutter of the can-house, where you can hang the key. You had better lock up a little till I get back”--his words half muffled under the big robes of the sleigh. “I hate to leave home,” he said, as we went along; “but she couldn’t stand it. She’s not well. It isn’t so bad for me with you along.” Two or three times he was about to say something else, but felt too tired. I had him duly entered; introduced him to his surgeon; helped him to his cot, where a cheery nurse made him easy; then gave him my hand. “Good-day,” he said; “I’m going to pay you back some time. Only I can’t.” He clung a moment longer to me. “I’ve never had many of the luxuries. I’ve worked hard for all I’ve got--except for the little colt. She was thrown in. I never fed her a quart of grain--the cleanest little eater--as fat as butter--and on nothing but roughage all the time!” Then, looking me straight in the eye, he said calmly, “You and I know and the doctors know. But I couldn’t tell her. You tell her. You can. And tell her I guess she had better sell the little colt.” He paused a moment. Something yet he wished to say--the thing he had tried before to say. I hope the Recording Angel took it down, and the _way_ he said it, down. Not quite daring to look into my eyes, he asked, wistfully, “You don’t need a fast horse yourself, of course, having your auto?” “Yes, I do, Joel,” I answered firmly; “I do need a fast horse. We all do, or something like that.” And I bent over and kissed him, for his wife, and for my little boy at home. There is balm in Gilead; but are there racetracks in Heaven?--and fast horses there? Perhaps not. But I often wish that I had told Joel I believed there were. Of course there are. There is romance in Heaven, and the magical chance of escape there. CHAPTER III THE HUNT FOR “COPY” CHAPTER III THE HUNT FOR “COPY”