And then, one noon, as Captain Zelotes returned to his desk after the walk from home and dinner, Laban Keeler came in and stood beside that desk. The captain, looking up, saw the little bookkeeper's face. “What is it, Labe?” he asked, sharply. Laban held a yellow envelope in his hand. “It came while you were gone to dinner, Cap'n,” he said. “Ben Kelley fetched it from the telegraph office himself. He--he said he didn't hardly want to take it to the house. He cal'lated you'd better have it here, to read to yourself, fust. That's what he said--yes, yes--that's what 'twas, Cap'n.” Slowly Captain Zelotes extended his hand for the envelope. He did not take his eyes from the bookkeeper's face. “Ben--Ben, he told me what was in it, Cap'n Lote,” faltered Laban. “I--I don't know what to say to you, I don't--no, no.” Without a word the captain took the envelope from Keeler's fingers, and tore it open. He read the words upon the form within. Laban leaned forward. “For the Lord sakes, Lote Snow,” he cried, in a burst of agony, “why couldn't it have been some darn good-for-nothin' like me instead--instead of him? Oh, my God A'mighty, what a world this is! WHAT a world!” Still Captain Zelotes said nothing. His eyes were fixed upon the yellow sheet of paper on the desk before him. After a long minute he spoke. “Well,” he said, very slowly, “well, Labe, there goes--there goes Z. Snow and Company.” CHAPTER XIV The telegram from the War Department was brief, as all such telegrams were perforce obliged to be. The Secretary of War, through his representative, regretted to inform Captain Zelotes Snow that Sergeant Albert Speranza had been killed in action upon a certain day. It was enough, however--for the time quite enough. It was not until later that the little group of South Harniss recovered sufficiently from the stunning effect of those few words to think of seeking particulars. Albert was dead; what did it matter, then, to know how he died? Olive bore the shock surprisingly well. Her husband's fears for her seemed quite unnecessary. The Captain, knowing how she had idolized her daughter's boy, had dreaded the effect which the news might have upon her. She was broken down by it, it is true, but she was quiet and brave--astonishingly, wonderfully quiet and brave. And it was she, rather than her husband, who played the part of the comforter in those black hours. “He's gone, Zelotes,” she said. “It don't seem possible, I know, but he's gone. And he died doin' his duty, same as he would have wanted to die if he'd known 'twas comin', poor boy. So--so we must do ours, I suppose, and bear up under it the very best we can. It won't be very long, Zelotes,” she added. “We're both gettin' old.” Captain Lote made no reply. He was standing by the window of the sitting-room looking out into the wet backyard across which the wind-driven rain was beating in stormy gusts.