It was the elder Moreland who reached a detaining hand, saying: “We’d better defer this business till after the funeral.” It was Junior, his handsome face sharpened to wolf-like lines, who said tersely: “Brace up, Dad. You’ve always told me that business was business. It’s too bad about the old man, but what’s it got to do with us? If this doesn’t turn the trick, nothing will. Nail it up!” The sheriff was shocked. He protested. Martin Moreland ordered him to tack the notice above the crêpe on the store door, but to delay placing the one upon the residence until after the funeral. As they turned away, Junior remarked: “I didn’t think you were so chicken-hearted, Dad. Why don’t you go through with it? Why don’t you give them all that’s coming to them at once?” Martin Moreland walked in silence for a minute. Then he said quietly: “Junior, did you ever hear of a boomerang? It’s supposed to be a weapon that you throw at some one else with the knowledge that it may miss its mark and return and bury itself in your own heart. There are plenty of people in this town who would be overjoyed at an opportunity to get their arrows into my heart. A wrong move in the present situation would in my judgment be risking the boomerang. It’s better to go slow, to make a pretence of sympathy and let the law, which happens to be inevitable once it starts, and inexorable under headway, do the remainder for us.” This was why, during the days when Mahlon Spellman lay stretched upon the sofa, an expression of noble dignity on his face and forehead, that his front door bore only a wreath of myrtle and roses with floating ribbons of purple. For the remainder of the day and during the first night following Mahlon’s passing, Mahala had faced the prospect of meeting life alone. Elizabeth Spellman had been so deeply shocked, so terrified and hurt, that she had succumbed and had gone down to the verge of ultimate collapse. It required the utmost efforts of Jemima, of Doctor Grayson, and friends of the Spellmans who came in flocks, to keep the proud and dainty woman alive. When her inherent strength triumphed over the blow that had been dealt her heart, her brain, and her body, she lay stretched upon her bed, one hand gripping into the coverlet that had been accustomed to covering Mahlon’s heart, the other clutching her own. The friends who attended her were compelled to watch closely in order to discover that she was breathing at all.