Indie found the squalid home of Tom’s widow after much patient wandering about the uneven, unswept streets. Many minutes passed before her ring was answered; then a white-faced woman opened the door a very little way. Yes, she was Mrs. Pasely. Did anyone want to see her? “I am Tom’s cousin, Indie,” the caller announced simply. “I’ve brung the money for Tom’s funeral.” The widow cried a little at first while she told Indie of Tom’s tragic death, but her mind was too absorbingly occupied over the funeral to permit of the luxury of self-pity. She dressed hurriedly and went out to communicate with the undertaker, leaving Indie with the children, three little, frail, colorless, old-young beings, who reminded Indie of cellar-grown plants. The widow was not long away; late that afternoon the two women and their three charges followed Tom’s remains to consecrated ground. “I never can tell you how thankful I am,” was all Mrs. Pasely said to Indie concerning her sacrifice, “for now I feel at rest about poor Tom bein’ laid away like he ought to be. If the baby was just well I’d try to start out an’ make a livin’ and do my best without Tom,” she added mournfully, “but it seems like I ain’t got no heart to do nothin’ while he’s so weak and puny. He ain’t been to say real well since we left Texas, where we lived right out in the country. I’ve tried everything I could think of but nothin’ don’t do him no good as I can see. The doctor says he won’t never git well till I take him back to the country, an maybe not then. Me’n Minnie’s got promise of work in the factory next week, but if little Tom ain’t no better I can’t leave him with jest Jim to look after him. If we only could git back to Texas agin we’d all git well an’ stout, an’ I wouldn’t care if we _was_ poor. All I care about is for little Tom to git well.” Oh, if she could only take them all back to the farm with her, thought Indie. A great wave of home longing surged through her heart as she thought of the peace and beauty of the deserted home. She knew just where the shadows of noontide lay darkest over the old rose-bordered yard—knew that the back veranda where she always ate her simple midday meals with Billy purring at her feet was just then in the thickest shadow of the china-berry trees, and that all was still and sweet and tranquil in that far-off haven of rest. Instead of factory walls there were green, blossomed hedges; instead of the strident clamor of motor cars and mill gongs there was a ceaseless chorus of song birds, and instead of the hot, smoke-tainted air of the city, there was the fine, earthy fragrance of the good sweet soil that lay fallow while so many weary toilers sweltered in their city prisons.