yet, and the red-and-yellow leaves danced heartlessly in the wind. A year ago they had gone on a nutting-party, and Clarice had raced with the children and picked up more than anybody else. Now—even to think of her brought that faint odor of salts-of-lavender and beef-tea that disheartened him so, somehow, when he sat by her bed coaxing her into sipping the stuff.
Some one was coming down the stairs. It was Peter’s step—his new one since last Friday, when they had all, it seemed, begun to walk and talk and breathe a little differently. Belden hurried across the room and caught him at the foot of the steps.
“Well, old man, how goes it?” he demanded, with a determined cheerfulness.
His brother-in-law stared at him emptily.
“It’s to-morrow,” he said, gripping the newel-post, “to-morrow afternoon. Jameson is coming—they’ll do it here. Jame-
