His voice trailed off. He had come a far way from the day he had walked

down the Street, and eyed Its poplars with appraising eyes--a far way. Now

he had a son, and the child's mother looked at him with tragic eyes. It

was arranged that K. should go back to town, returning late that night to

pick up Joe at a lonely point on the road, and to drive him to a railroad

station. But, as it happened, he went back that afternoon.

He had told Schwitter he would be at the hospital, and the message found

him there. Wilson was holding his own, conscious now and making a hard

fight. The message from Schwitter was very brief:-"Something has happened, and Tillie wants you. I don't like to trouble you

again, but she--wants you."

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K. was rather gray of face by that time, having had no sleep and little

food since the day before. But he got into the rented machine again--its

rental was running up; he tried to forget it--and turned it toward

Hillfoot. But first of all he drove back to the Street, and walked without

ringing into Mrs. McKee's.

Neither a year's time nor Mrs. McKee's approaching change of state had

altered the "mealing" house. The ticket-punch still lay on the hat-rack in

the hall. Through the rusty screen of the back parlor window one viewed

the spiraea, still in need of spraying. Mrs. McKee herself was in the

pantry, placing one slice of tomato and three small lettuce leaves on each

of an interminable succession of plates.

K., who was privileged, walked back.

"I've got a car at the door," he announced, "and there's nothing so

extravagant as an empty seat in an automobile. Will you take a ride?"

Mrs. McKee agreed. Being of the class who believe a boudoir cap the ideal

headdress for a motor-car, she apologized for having none.

"If I'd known you were coming I would have borrowed a cap," she said.

"Miss Tripp, third floor front, has a nice one. If you'll take me in my

toque--"

K. said he'd take her in her toque, and waited with some anxiety, having

not the faintest idea what a toque was. He was not without other

anxieties. What if the sight of Tillie's baby did not do all that he

expected? Good women could be most cruel. And Schwitter had been very

vague. But here K. was more sure of himself: the little man's voice had

expressed as exactly as words the sense of a bereavement that was not a

grief.




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