Hour after hour she would sit, her hands folded in her lap, indulging her sorrow in silent brooding. She would picture Paul as he looked when he said his last farewell; her imagination would carry her to the desolate shores of Hudson Bay; she would see him struggling in icy waters; she would hear his last agonizing cry to her as he sank finally beneath the waves; and always his face cold in death, and his body unburied and uncared for, perhaps the prey of savage animals, rose up before her to reprove her for permitting him to leave her. These were the things she dreamed of, asleep and awake, and they were the only subjects of her conversation. Densmore was most devoted to his wife. He gave much of his time to her, and as the months passed more and more of the conduct of his vast business affairs was left in the hands of trained subordinates. During these months he had grown visibly older. Life had lost its charm. Much as he loved his son, he could have borne Paul’s loss with some degree of fortitude had his wife taken it less to heart, but the double sorrow of Paul’s loss and her condition of melancholia took from him at length the old vim and vigor that had won for him his high place in the business world, and he was forced to admit that he had “lost his grip.” He was sitting in his sumptuously furnished office one June afternoon, his chin on his breast, deep in thought. A pile of important papers lay before him quite forgotten, though his secretary had placed them there an hour before, stating that they required his immediate personal attention. “What is the use?” he asked himself. “Paul is gone. I’ve got a good deal more than we need. Mother [he always called Mrs. Densmore ‘Mother’] must have a change, or she’ll never recover from the shock. Why not give it all up? Why not retire? Mother and I will take our yacht and float around the world and try to forget.” He looked at his watch at length. It was half past three. He pressed a button, and a boy appeared. “Tell Mr. Hadden I wish to see him,” he directed. At that moment Mr. Hadden, the secretary, evidently in a state of high excitement, entered briskly. “Here’s a telegram----” he began. “Attend to it, Hadden, I’m going----” “Read it! Read it!” exclaimed the secretary, holding the open telegram before Densmore’s eyes. Densmore, who had risen to his feet, read it, and leaned back heavily against the desk. Then he caught the telegram eagerly from Hadden’s hand and read it again. “Is it possible, Hadden? Is it possible?” he asked excitedly. “Yes,” answered the secretary with assurance. “I’ve studied the maps of that country ever since the boy’s disappearance. He’s worked his way down with natives to Winnipeg. I’m sure it’s straight!” Densmore was quite alive now. His face was beaming, and his old-time energy had returned as by magic.