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“She calls him Wallace?” mused Herman, like a comedian. “Hush! And then came the hand-shaking, and then the minister came home with us because father asked him to, and stayed because he liked the chicken.”

The girl was hurt, and she showed it. “If you make fun, I won’t tell you another word,” she said.

“Away Chicago! enter Cyene! Well, come, I won’t fool any more.”

“Then after Wallace–I mean–“

“Let it stand. Come to the murder.”

“Then father came and asked me to send for you, and mother cried, and so did he. And, oh, Hermie, he’s so sweet and kind! Don’t make fun of him, will you? It’s splendid to have him give in, and everybody feels glad that the district will be all friendly again.”

Herman did not gibe now. His voice was gentle. The pathos in the scene appealed to him. “So the old man sent for me himself, did he?”

“Yes; he could hardly wait till morning. But this morning, when we came to call the teacher, he didn’t answer, and father went in and found him unconscious. Then I went for the doctor.”

Bay Tom whirled along in the splendid dusk, his nostrils flaring ghostly banners of steam on the cold, crisp air. The stars overhead were points of green and blue and crimson light, low-hung, changing each moment. Their influence entered the soul of the mocking young fellow. He felt very solemn, almost melancholy, for a moment.

“Well, Sis, I’ve got something to tell you all. I’m going to tell it to you by degrees. I’m going to be married.”

“Oh!” she gasped, with quick, indrawn breath. “Who?”

“Don’t be ungrammatical, whatever you do. She’s a cashier in a restaurant, and she’s a fine girl,” he added, steadily, as if combating a prejudice. He forgot for the moment that such prejudices did not exist in Cyene.

Sis was instantly tender, and very, very serious.

“Of course she is, or you wouldn’t care for her. Oh, I’d like to see her!”

“I’ll take you up some day and show her to you.”

“Oh, will you? Oh, when can I go?” She was smitten into gravity again. “Not till the teacher is well.”

Herman pretended to be angry. “Dog take the teacher, the old spindle-legs! If I’d known he was going to raise such a ruction in our quiet and peaceful neighborhood, I never would have brought him here.”

Mattie did not laugh; she pondered. She never quite understood her brother when he went off on those queer tirades, which might be a joke or an insult. He had grown away from her in his city life.

They rode on in silence the rest of the way, except now and then an additional question from Mattie concerning his sweetheart.

As they neared the farm-house she lost interest in all else but the condition of the young minister. They could see the light burning dimly in his room, and in the parlor and kitchen as well, and this unusual lighting stirred the careless young man deeply. It was associated in his mind with death and birth, and also with great joy. The house was lighted so the night his elder brother died, and it looked so to him when he whirled into the yard with the doctor when Mattie was born.

“Oh, I hope he isn’t worse!” said the girl, with deep feeling.

Herman put his arm about her, and she knew he knew.

“So do I, Sis.”

Allen came to the door as they drove in, and the careless boy realized suddenly the emotional tension his father was in. As the old man came to the sleigh-side he could not speak. His fingers trembled as he took the outstretched hand of his boy.

Herman’s voice shook a little:

“Well, Dad, Mattie says the war is over.”

The old man tried to speak, but only coughed and then he blew his nose. At last he said, brokenly:

“Go right in; your mother’s waitin’.”

It was singularly dramatic to the youth. To come from the careless, superficial life of his city companions into contact with such primeval passions as these made him feel like a spectator at some new and powerful and tragic play.