hat past the middle of the Dead Hole.

“There,” said Jerome; “guess nobody 'll ever know now. There ain't no bottom to the Dead Hole.” The boy hurried out of the woods and down the road again. When he reached the Prescott house a man was just coming out of the yard, following the path from the south door. When he came up to Jerome he eyed him curiously; then he grasped him by the shoulder.

“Sick?” said he.

“No,” said Jerome.

“What on airth makes you look so?”

“Father's lost.”

“Lost—where's he lost? What d'ye mean?”

“Went to get a load of wood for Doctor Prescott this mornin', an' 'ain't got home.”

“Now, I want to know! Didn't I see his team go up the road a few minutes ago?”

Jerome nodded. “Met it, an' he wa'n't on,” said he.

“Lord!” cried the man, and stared at him. He was a middle-aged man, with a small wiry shape and a gait like a boy's. His name was Jake Noyes, and he was the doctor's hired man. He took care of his horse, and drove for him, and some said helped him compound his prescriptions. There was great respect in the village for Jake Noyes. He had a kind of reflected glory from the doctor, and some of his own.

Jerome pulled his shoulder away. “Got to be goin',” said he.

“Stop,” said Jake Noyes. “This has got to be looked into. He must have got hurt. He must be in the woods where he was workin'.”

“Ain't. I've been there,” said Jerome, shortly, and broke away.

“Where did ye look?”

“Everywhere,” the boy called back. But Jake followed him up.

“Stop a minute,” said he; “I want to know. Did you go as fur 's the pond?”

“What should I want to go to the pond for, like to know?” Jerome looked around at him fiercely.

“I didn't know but he might have fell in the pond; it's pretty near.”

“I'd like to know what you think my father would jump in the pond for?” Jerome demanded.

“Lord, I didn't say he jumped in. I said fell in.”

“You know he couldn't have fell in. You know he would have had to gone in of his own accord. I'll let you know my father wa'n't the man to do anything like that, Jake Noyes!” The boy actually shook his puny fist in the man's face. “Say it again, if ye dare!” he cried.

“Lord!” said Jake Noyes, with half-comical consternation. He screwed up one blue eye after a fashion he had—people said he had acquired it from dropping drugs for the doctor—and looked with the other at the boy.

“Say it again an' I'll kill ye, I will!” cried Jerome, his voice breaking into a hoarse sob, and was off.

“Be ye crazy?” Jake Noyes called after him. He stood staring at him a minute, then went into the house on a run.

Jerome ran to the place where he had left his father's team, untied the horse, climbed up on the seat, and drove home. He could not go fast; the old horse could proceed no faster than a walk with a load. When he came in sight of home he saw a blue flutter at the gate. It was Elmira's shawl; she was out there watching. When she saw the team she came running down the road to meet it. “Where's father?” she cried out. “Jerome, where's father?”

“Dun'no',” said Jerome. He sat high above her, holding the reins. His pale, set face looked over her head.

“Jerome—haven't you—seen—father?”

“No.”

Elmira burst out with a great wail. “Oh, Jerome, where's father? Jerome, where is he? Is he killed? Oh, father, father!”

“Keep still,” said Jerome. “Mother 'll hear you.”

“Oh, Jerome, where's father?”

“I tell you, hold your tongue. Do you want to kill mother, too?”

Poor little Elmira, running alongside the team, wept convulsively. “Elmira, I tell you to keep still,” said Jerome, in such a voice that she immediately choked back her sobs.

Jerome drew up the wood-team at the gate with a great creak. “Stand here 'side of the horse a minute,” he said to Elmira. He swung himself off the load and went up the path to the house. As he drew near the door he could hear his mother's chair. Ann Edwards, crippled as she was, managed, through some strange manipulation of muscles, to move herself in her rocking-chair all about the house. Now the jerking scrape of the rockers on the uncarpeted floor sounded loud. When Jerome opened the door he saw his mother hitching herself rapidly back and forth in a fashion she had when excited. He had seen her do so before, a few times.

When she saw Jerome she stopped short and screwed up her face before him as if to receive a blow. She did not ask a question.

“I met the team comin' home,” said Jerome.

Still his mother said nothing, but kept that cringing face before a coming blow.

“Father wa'n't on it,” said Jerome.

Still his mother waited.

“I hitched the horse,” said Jerome, “and then I went up to the ten-acre lot, and I looked everywhere. He ain't there.”

Suddenly Ann Edwards seemed to fall back upon herself before his eyes. Her head sank helplessly; she slipped low in her chair.

Jerome ran to the water-pail, dipped out some water, and sprinkled his mother's face. Then he rubbed her little lean hands with his hard, boyish palm. He had seen his mother faint before. In fact, he had been all prepared for it now.

Presently she began to gasp and struggle feebly, and he knew she was coming to. “Feel better?” he asked, in a loud voice, as if she were miles away; indeed, he had a feeling that she was. “Feel better, mother?”

Mrs. Edwards raised herself. “Your—father has fell down and died,” she said. “There needn't anybody say anything else. Wipe this water off my face. Get a towel.” Jerome obeyed.

“There needn't anybody say anything else,” repeated his mother.

“I guess they needn't, either,” assented Jerome, coming with the towel and wiping her face gently. “I'd like to hear anybody,” he added, fiercely.

“He's fell down—and died,” said his mother. She made sounds like sobs as she spoke, but there were no tears in her eyes.

“I s'pose I ought to go an' take the horse out,” said Jerome.

“Well.”

“I'll send Elmira in; she's holdin' him.”

“Well.”

Jerome lighted a candle first, for it was growing dark, and went out. “You go in and stay with mother,” he said to Elmira, “an' don't you go to cryin' an' makin' her worse—she's been faintin' away. Any tea in the house?”

“No,” said the little girl, trying to control her quivering face.

“Make her some hot porridge, then—she'd ought to have something. You can do that, can't you?”

Elmira nodded; she dared not speak for fear she should cry.

“Go right in, then,” said Jerome; and she obeyed, keeping her face turned away. Her childish back looked like an old woman's as she entered the door.

Jerome unharnessed the horse, led him into the barn, fed him, and drew some water for him from the well. When he came out of the barn, after it was all done, he saw Doctor Prescott's chaise turning into the yard. The doctor and Jake Noyes were in it. When the chaise stopped, Jerome went up to it, bobbed his head and scraped his foot. A handsome, keenly scowling face looked out of the chaise at him. Doctor Seth Prescott was over fifty, with a smooth-shaven face as finely cut as a woman's, with bright blue eyes under bushy brows, and a red scratch-wig. Before years and snows and rough winds had darkened and seamed his face, he had been a delicately fair man. “Has he come yet?” he demanded, peremptorily.

Jerome bobbed and scraped again. “No, sir.”

“You didn't see a sign of him in the woods?”

Jerome hesitated visibly.

The doctor's eyes shone more sharply. “You didn't, eh?”

“No, sir,” said Jerome.

“Does your mother know it?”

“Yes, sir.”

“How is she?”

“She fainted away, but she's