Wentworth had been killed. Chance had deprived this woman of her man; Chance had grabbed at her boy; Chance had sent Donaldson to save the latter; Chance--Donaldson caught his breath at the possibility the sequence suggested--Chance may have sent him to offset as far as possible the husband's death. It was too late, although he felt the obligation in a new light, for him to give his life for the life of that other, but there was one other thing he could do. He could play the father with what he had left of himself. So that when he came to face Wentworth--he smiled gently at the approaching possibility--he could hold his head high as he went to meet him. He had argued to Barstow that he was shirking no responsibilities,--but what of such unseen responsibilities as this? What of the thousand others that he should die too soon to realize? It was possible that countless other such opportunities as this must be wasted because he should not be there to play his part. But there was still time to do something; he need not see, as with the girl and with love, the fine possibilities go utterly to waste. The mother had noticed a warm light steal over his face, not realizing how closely his thoughts concerned her own future; she had seen the sabre cut of pain which had followed his thought of the girl and what she might have meant, knowing nothing of that grim tragedy. Now she saw his eyes clear as with their inspired light they were lifted to her. Yet the talk went on uninterruptedly on the same commonplace level. "How old was Jim?" "He was within a week of thirty." That was within a few days of his own age. At thirty, Jim Wentworth, clinging to life, had been wrenched from it; at thirty, he himself had thrown it away. Wentworth had shouldered his duties manfully; he had been blind to them. But it was not too late to do something. He was being led as by Marley's ghost to one new vision of life after another. He saw love--with death grinning over love's shoulder; he was to be given a taste of fatherhood,--the grave at his feet. "Do you ever hear from the people back home?" he asked abruptly. "Not very often," she answered. "After the old folks went I sorter got out of tech with the others." "What became of the homestead?" "It was sold little by little when father was sick. When he died there was n't much left. That went to pay the debts." "Who lives there now?" "Let me see--I don't think any one is there now. Last I heard, it was fer sale." "Who holds it?" "Deacon Staples. Leastways it was him who held the notes." "That old pirate? No wonder there was n't anything left." "He _was_ a leetle hard," she admitted. "I wanted Jim to go back an' take it after father died, but he couldn't seem to make a deal with the deacon." "I s'pose not. No one this side of the devil himself will ever make a square deal with him. He 's still as strong in the church as ever?" She smiled.