“Well, I won't say now. It may have been the horse, but I hardly think it, for I saw a face. All I remember clear is a-layin' me hand on the mare's back. When I come to I was flat on the lounge. They had fixed me up, and Dr. Mason had gone off. Only the thick hood saved me. Carl and Cully searched the place, but nothin' could be found. Cully says he heard somebody a-runnin' on the other side of the fence, but ye can't tell. Nobody keeps their heads in times like that.” “Have you been in bed ever since?” Babcock asked. “In bed! God rest ye! I was down to the board meetin' two hours after, wid Mr. Crane, and signed the contract. Jennie and all of 'em wouldn't have it, and cried and went on, but I braved 'em all. I knew I had to go if I died for it. Mr. Crane had his buggy, so I didn't have to walk. The stairs was the worst. Once inside, I was all right. I only had to sign, an' come out again; it didn't take a minute. Mr. Crane stayed and fixed the bonds wid the trustees, an' I come home wid Carl and Jennie.” Then, turning to her father, she said, “Gran'pop, will ye and Jennie go into the kitchen for a while? I've some private business wid Mr. Babcock.” When they were gone her whole manner changed. She buried her face for a moment in the pillow, covering her cheek with her hands; then, turning to Babcock, she said:-- “Now, me friend, will ye lock the door?” For some minutes she looked out of the window, through the curtains and nasturtiums, then, in a low, broken voice, she said: “I'm in great trouble. Will ye help me?” “Help you, Tom? You know I will, and with anything I've got. What is it!” he said earnestly, regaining his chair and drawing it closer. “Has no one iver told ye about me Tom?” she asked, looking at him from under her eyebrows. “No; except that he was hurt or--or--out of his mind, maybe, and you couldn't bring him home.” “An' ye have heared nothin' more?” “No,” said Babcock, wondering at her anxious manner. “Ye know that since he went away I've done the work meself, standin' out as he would have done in the cold an' wet an' workin' for the children wid nobody to help me but these two hands.” Babcock nodded. He knew how true it was. “Ye've wondered many a time, maybe, that I niver brought him home an' had him round wid me other poor cripple, Patsy--them two togither.” Her voice fell almost to a whisper. “Or ye thought, maybe, it was mean and cruel in me that I kep' him a burden on the State, when I was able to care for him meself. Well, ye'll think so no more.” Babcock began to see now why he had been sent for. His heart went out to her all the more. “Tom, is your husband dead?” he asked, with a quiver in his voice. She never took her eyes from his face. Few people were ever tender with her; they never seemed to think she needed it. She read this man's sincerity and sympathy in his eyes; then she answered slowly:-- “He is, Mr. Babcock.” “When did he die! Was it last night, Tom?”