upon her worn features; she blinked at the light, for her eyes smarted. But she had reached a decision, and she moved to carry it out; Timothy must be sacrificed for Gilbert! . . . Mother-love was the more powerful.
But even as she strode forward grimly, Timothy clattered down the steps. He rushed to the door, placed his broad back against it. As he faced her, he appeared gigantic, towering, even menacing. The sickly light poured upon his distorted, puffed face.
"You ain't going!" he snarled.
Pausing, she eyed him coolly.
"I am."
"I say you ain't—and you ain't!"
Her lips parted in an ugly sneer, hideous on her sallow features.
"You're a coward, Tim! You ain't a man—you're a dog!"
"Don't care what you say," he rasped back. "I ain't going to hang 'cause you think the kid needs a doctor. He don't!"
"He—he'll die if I don't get one."
Timothy gulped, glanced away in fear. But immediately his bravado reasserted itself.
"He won't die—that's just your talk. You're going to stay right here. No doctor—nobody comes into this house till the kid stops blabbering about the well."
Agatha's lean arms were crooked, as she placed her hands on her hips in a challenging gesture.
"Suppose I do go?" she said.
"I ain't going to let you."
"What'll you do?"
"Keep you here, that's what!"
"By force? With your hands?"
"Yes, with my hands!"
She smiled bitterly.
"It won't be the first time you beat me," she said.
But slowly she turned and went back to the bed. Upon it she sank thoughtfully. There was no sense in opposing Timothy when so violent a mood was upon him. She knew her husband. He would beat her, throw her upon the floor, compel her with brutal force to remain at home, if she attempted to call a doctor.
She did not mind the pain his fists inflicted. What troubled her was the knowledge that a beating from her husband would incapacitate her for days—it had always had that effect. And there would be no one to care for Gilbert. . . .
No, she could not throw her strength against the power of Timothy. She would wait at least until he slept.
The fact that in a short time Gilbert subsided into deep slumber lent Timothy cause for malicious gloating.
"See!" he told her as she gazed wanly upon the boy. "He's better now, ain't he? Sound asleep. Quiet. Suppose you'd called the doctor, it would have been a useless risk. Who was wiser you or me?"
"You, of course," she replied sardonically.
"Sure I was right. And now that the kid's asleep, suppose we take the opportunity to rest? Come on, Agatha. Let's go down. You need sleep, if you're half as tired as I am."
"Half as tired as you—" she repeated weakly, and smiled. Oh, how unutterably stupid and cowardly and vile she was discovering her husband to be!
Without undressing, they threw themselves on the bed. The lower floor, with the light blown out, was impenetrably black. It took Timothy but a moment to fall into sonorous sleep.
But Agatha lingered on the border of wakefulness. She would wait a while, she promised herself, until Timothy would no longer notice her movements. Then she would steal off to telephone Dr. Loop. Gilbert needed him—needed him—
She dozed off, slept for a long, long time. Unconsciously she snuggled against the warmth of her husband's huge body, and her arm crept about him. Two lumbering farm toilers, suited to each other, yet unhappy. . . .
It must have been near dawn when she awoke with a start. She was trembling as she sat up in bed, and her hand rose to her lips. She looked about the blackness—saw nothing. Yet, strangely, she sensed a premonition that something was wrong. . .
Beside her Timothy still slept. She thought of the doctor; and she cursed herself. Why had she permitted weariness to conquer her? She must go now—now—
Quietly she pushed herself off the bed, groped for the shawl, threw it around her ungainly back. She started for the door—and saw with a gasp that it was open.
A breeze, blowing in upon her, scattered her straggling hair and brought a queer dread. Without a sound, she turned, hurried up the steps to Gilbert's room.
A moment later she flew down, flung herself desperately upon her husband, shook him to wakefulness. She was screaming.
"Tim! Tim! Gil is gone—he's gone!"
He blinked up through the darkness.
"Hey? What?"
"Get up! Gil is gone, I tell you—he's gone! He's not in his bed! And—and the door's open!"
She was quivering as if the fever had caught her. She actually dragged Timothy out of the bed by sheer force. And as the meaning of his wife's words sank into his consciousness, he suddenly displayed an access of energy.
He hissed a fearful oath, dashed up the stairs. Instantly he returned, dazed, staggering.
"You're right," he said. "He's—gone!"
"And the door's open!"
"God!" he whispered.
Then he sprang to the door and with all the power of his lungs shouted:
"Gil! Gil! Son, where are you?"
There was no answer. As he called again, his voice throbbed with the anguish of his soul. Anguish which Agatha shared, felt even more keenly.
They tore out into the night, rushing about desperately in a wild search. And as she ran blindly, Agatha Cruze yelled hysterically:
"It's your fault, Tim! Your fault! You wouldn't let me go for the doctor! That might have saved the boy! You wouldn't let me go! I tell you, I swear do you hear?—I swear if anything happens to him, I'll tell everybody everything about the murder—everything!"
Timothy was suffering in torture too great to permit his saying anything but:
"If anything happens to him, I don't care what you tell everybody!"
And then suddenly he came to an abrupt stop, while all the strength oozed from his quaking body. His legs sagged; his eyes were dilated; he crumpled to his knees, gaping before him at the ground.
Agatha came to his side; with a moan of horrible comprehension she fell beside him, and gazed in terror-stricken fascination at the ground. A finger, trembling, moved forward to point at the dreadful thing.
Before them yawned the open hole of the well. The boards had been pushed back. . . .
"He—he wanted to—see—see the well!" whispered Agatha, each word forced out of a choking throat.
Without a sound, the quivering Timothy bent forward. He lit a match, cupped it in his hands, and held it over the pit. Mother and father peered down—peered in fearful awe.
And then Agatha Cruze collapsed against her husband's shoulder.
Far, far down in the well, scarcely visible in the dim light of the match flame, lay the still body of little Gilbert—sprawling across the form of Dr. Philemon. . .
THE END
