He raised his head instantly and an expression of pain passed over his face. “You’re right, there,” he said in a low voice. “That was one of the hardest things that ever happened. If there’s a God I’d like to know why he let it happen. Juan Garcia was the salt of the earth--a great man. He was the best son, the best husband and the best friend I ever knew. And he was killed offhand, for no reason, by an unnecessary accident, leaving these poor, helpless creatures this way.” He made a gesture with his head toward the door. “You knew him well?” said Mariposa. The gray eyes looked into hers very gravely. “He was my best friend,” he answered; “the best friend any man ever had in the world.” The girl saw he was moved. “The people we love, and depend on, and live for always die,” she said gloomily. “But others come up. They don’t quite take their places, but they fill up the holes in the ranks. We’re not expected always to love comfortably and be happy. We’re expected to work; that’s what we’re here for, and there’s plenty of it to do. Haven’t I got my work cut out for me,” suddenly laughing, “in those two boys?” Mariposa’s pale lips showed the ripple of an assenting smile. “They’re certainly a serious proposition,” he continued, “and poor Elsie can’t any more manage ’em than she could ride a bucking bronco. But they’ll pull out all right. Don’t you worry. Those boys are all right.” He was about to return to the remnants of the supper when his eyes fell on the folded paper, which had been pushed to one side of the table. “Oh, look!” he said; “we forgot the paper. You’ve finished; wouldn’t you like to see it?” She shook her head. The paper had not much interest for her at the best of times. “Well, then, if you don’t mind, I’ll run my eye over it, while you make me another cup of tea. Three cups are my limit--one lump and milk.” He handed her the cup, already shaking the paper out of its folds. She was struggling with the leakage of the broken spout, when he gave a loud ejaculation: “Great Scott! here’s news!” “What is it?” she queried, the broken teapot suspended over the cup. “Jake Shackleton’s dead!” The teapot fell with a crash on the table. Her mouth opened, her face turned an amazing pallor, and she sat staring at the astonished man with horror-stricken eyes. “Dead!” she gasped; “why everybody’s dead!” Barron dropped the paper on the floor. “I’m so awfully sorry; I didn’t know you knew him well. I didn’t know he was a friend.” “Friend!” she echoed, almost with a shriek. “Friend! Why, he was my father.” The voice ended in a wild peal of laughter, horrible, almost maniacal.