The top of the hill was almost as high as the crest of the big tulip tree, and as they descended to its level the tree seemed to grow upwards above them. Halfway down the rough slope, they saw Mrs. Albeson clambering toward them difficultly, fat as she was and short of breath and full of autumnal rheumatism. She sent her garrulous voice ahead of her: “What o’ mercy’s happened up there? What’s the voices I heard? Sounded like murder bein’ done.” RoBards could not answer her in words. She glanced from his white face to the torn lamb he carried and she tried to thrust from her mind the hideous guess it made: “Not—not?—Aw, no!” “Hush!” said RoBards. And she knew. She wavered a moment and wanted to faint or die, but was not used to such comfortable escapes from reality. Revulsion shook her big frame; then her soul seemed to scold her for a cowardice. She raised her head and put out her arms, saying: “Gi’ me the pore little martyr.” And RoBards was glad to surrender to this big woman the tiny woman in whose invaded sanctity he felt himself all the more forbidden for being her father. His last word was: “You won’t speak of this to your husband—or anybody.” Abby gave him a look of reproach and drew the child into her own breast, smothering the little fainting wail: “Abby—big bad man——” “Hush!” said Abby. “Hush!” said the tulip tree, as always, and kept reiterating its watchword at the window of the library where RoBards sought the dark quiet and paced the floor, wringing his hands and beating back into his mouth the mad yelping atheisms that came up as vainly as the bayings of a hound against the imperturbable moon. He did not see his boy hiding among the young tulip trees about the children’s graves. There was a little hillock there and Keith could see into the library and see his father weaving to and fro like a caged fox. He wondered what it was all about. There was something terrible beyond the terrible fact that Jud Lasher had hurt Immy. But the mystery was impenetrable to his little mind. And his father would not tell him. Keith wanted to go to him and help him, but he knew that he wanted to be alone. Fathers did not call for little boys to help them at such times. It might have aided poor RoBards a little to feel that he himself was at just such a distance from his own heavenly Father, and He as helpless to explain. But that would not comport with any theology he understood. And he paced his cage. CHAPTER XX When RoBards had cried out all the blasphemy in his heart he fell to praying for some divine miracle to undo the past, to erase the truth and turn it into a nightmare. But soon he was put into God’s place and proved himself as adamant to prayer. He had walked until he fell upon the old sofa. He rose from that, remembering that Harry Chalender had lain there when he was wounded. He went to a big chair and sank into it, a mere heap of weary bones and flaccid muscles.