Keith was interested to find a little glow of light on the kitchen floor, seeping in from the cellar. He listened and heard someone moving about, heard a mystifying chipping noise, such as the stone-cutters had made when they put the new marble hearthstone in place and when they had recently enlarged the cellar and strengthened the foundation with a course or two of stone. The cellar walls were eleven feet thick in places. They were made, Mr. Albeson said, “in the good old days when builders were honest and houses were solid—none of your modern flimsies.” Keith had spent much time there on the cellar stairs watching the masons and asking questions. He had learned much of the chemistry of mortar and the dangers of quicklime. He had seen it smoke like milk on fire. He had been told that if he fell in it he would disappear, be just eaten up bones and all. What could be going on down there now? Masons did not work at night. A burglar would hardly try to cut his way through stone foundations when the windows were usually left unlocked. Keith reached up and putting his fat hand on the thumb-latch pressed it down with all the gentleness he could command. Not a sound did he make, and the door came open silently. But a damp draught enveloped him and icy water seemed to flow round his ankles. With the wind that poured up the stairs came a stream of light, and an increase of sound. He leaned through the door and stared down. He saw his father in rough old clothes splotched with white. He looked like a mason and he was dragging from the thick wall of the chimney a big stone. On the cellar floor were many others ragged with old mortar. In the chimney was a big hole and his father was making it bigger. Keith’s darting eyes made out a long box of white lime fuming and simmering with a long something half buried in it. He watched his father in a stupor of bewilderment while he cleared a sort of oven in the wall. He had never seen such a look on his father’s face. At length he took the lamp and set it in another place, and bent to draw that something from the quicklime box. As he hoisted it awkwardly out of the shadow into the light, Keith saw that it was Jud Lasher. He seemed to be asleep, for he hung all limp in white clothes and he made no sound. Keith saw his father carry the gaunt, gangling form to the chimney and stuff it into the hollow. It would not fit, and he began frantically thrusting at the arms and legs to crowd them in. The head rolled across the edge and Keith caught sight of the face. Jud was not asleep! He was—— The boy pitched forward; slid and thudded down the cellar stairs head first. He fell and fell. The next thing he knew was the feel of his bed about him. His head was on his pillow. The covers tucked under his chin. His head was swimming and there was a big throbbing lump on his forehead. As he put his hand to its ache, his eyes made out a tall figure standing by him. “That you, Papa?” “Yes, Keith.”