Poor Uncle could not take it in.

"But, Susan, Alferd be lost."

"'Twas a sh.e.l.l. They couldn't find 'un, because there was nothing to find."

To her dismay, Uncle bowed his head upon his hands and wept like a woman, shedding the copious tears that might have softened the hard eyes steadily regarding him. He had loved Alfred. Susan knew this. He could have better spared one of his own sons rather than this kindly, affectionate nephew. She rose quietly and fetched the letter, giving him time to recover his self-control. As she held out the letter, he raised a face to hers so seamed by grief and pain that almost, almost her heart melted within her. He read the letter and returned it. She put it away, and took a chair upon the other side of the hearth. Uncle gazed about him, noting, as men do upon such occasions, trifles that escape notice in happier times. The coffin stools stood in their old place against the wall. Uncle pointed at them, with trembling finger:

"Fancy be dead, too."

"No. She be more like herself to-day, although tarr'ble weak. They stools be for me, Habakkuk. The sooner I goes the better."

No inflection of resignation tempered this statement. Uncle, like Hamlin, realised the futility of condolence, but silence imposed too great a burden upon him.

"You has the baby," he suggested.

"She belongs to Fancy. I bain't afeard for they two."

"Be you afeard for yourself, Susan?"

She eyed him, sensible of an ever-increasing aversion to questions. Was he thinking of punishment hereafter, of h.e.l.l's fires?

"I bain't afeard o' h.e.l.l, and I bain't going to Heaven. For why? Heaven and h.e.l.l be here on earth--and nowheres else."

"Susan----!"

"Ay, you be mazed, and no wonder. But I be come to that. I believed in G.o.d A'mighty; I believed in Satan--for sixty long years. But such belief be clean gone."

"You be wrong, Susan. It ain't in me to argufy wi' 'ee, and, maybe, tear both our hearts. But you be wrong. The swallers knows better'n that. Who gave 'em their wisdom? I says no more but this: G.o.d sent His Own People into the wilderness, where you be, and He brought 'em out."

She shook her head. Uncle stood up.

"'Tis rainin' crool hard, but I be off to the Forest. You won't want Jane fussin' about 'ee? No. Or anybody else. I allers allowed as misery loved company, but I be so miserable this day that I wants to be alone, as you does."

He kissed her cold cheeks and went out into the rain.

She sat on for a minute, but the thought that worried her most was the regret that he had not had his tea. The day was failing fast. In a moment she would have to light a lamp and carry it upstairs. But something remained to be done, a duty neglected since the morning.

She went into the parlour, where the light was better, but not good; good enough, she reflected, for her purpose. She lifted the Bible, placed it upon the middle table, and opened it at the fly-leaf. Then she took pen and ink from her desk and a clean sheet of blotting-paper. She took out her spectacles, wiped them carefully, put them on, and sat down. Against Alfred's name she made the necessary entry, "_Killed in Action_," adding the date. Her hand never trembled; the writing was characteristic; firm, bold, with the words neatly s.p.a.ced, indicating love of order. What she had willed herself to be, she was: a flint embedded in sterile soil. She took off her spectacles and placed them in their case, rising as she did so. Upon second thoughts, she decided to let the ink dry upon the page. Suddenly, an irresistible impulse gripped her. She glanced about her furtively, defiantly, as if challenging unseen powers to thwart her determination. Hastily with fingers that trembled this time, she s.n.a.t.c.hed up the pen, dipped it into the ink, and wrote against her name, Susan Yellam, these words:

"_Died. December 28th, 1916._"

As hastily, she placed the sheet of blotting-paper above the entries, closed the Bible, and replaced it upon its table.

Having shut up the parlour, she lit a lamp and carried it upstairs. The baby was asleep. The nurse went home for the night. Then Mrs. Yellam told Fancy, in a cheerful voice, that she would bring up tea in a few minutes.

"I thought I heard Uncle," said Fancy.

"Yes; he looked in and made some stupid jokes, he did, about gettin' the miller's boat."

"Whatever for?"

"Like as not we may be on an island afore nightfall."

Fancy smiled.

"I'd love to ride in miller's boat again. Alfred popped the question in that. I did tease him first. 'Twas rare fun. I suppose Uncle was in fine fettle, as usual?"

"Yes; I never seen him so gay and joyous. Now, you lie so quiet as any mouse whilst I gets tea."

It might have been so delightful a meal. Outside, the wind roared and the rain fell in sheets; inside, the logs crackled in the fireplace, the warm curtains were drawn, and the lamp shone upon Mrs. Yellam's best tea-things. Everything that could tempt a capricious appet.i.te was there: fragrant tea, cream, jam, honey, and little scones which warranted the belief that Susan Yellam had secreted somewhere a bag of white flour.

Susan had to sustain the burden of talk, and soared to heights. Fancy must be entertained--the doctor's injunction. The old woman's amazing will surmounted all obstacles. And who shall say that this heart-breaking effort to beguile Fancy was not the most selfless achievement of Mrs. Yellam's long life? She described pa.s.sages in Uncle's early career; anecdotes about Jane, anecdotes about her own Lizzie and Alfred. As a boy, it seemed, Alfred had been very untidy. He never kept his own little attic in order. Finally his mother said to him:

"Alferd, your room bain't a boy's room, nor a dog's kennel, nor a pig's stye. 'Tis the habitation of a lunatic."

Fancy smiled, because the mother must have spoken at the time, and again now, with such inimitable seriousness.

After tea, Fancy was commanded to rest. But before doing so, she caught hold of her entertainer's hand, and said earnestly:

"How good you are to me, Mother! How good and kind you always are to sick folk. Such a wondersome woman! I hope my lil' maid will grow up just like you."

"If you talk such outrageous nonsense, I'll--I'll spank Lizzie. That'll larn 'ee."

But Fancy refused to be gagged. She went on, in her soft, feeble tones, expatiating upon Mrs. Yellam's many virtues and excellencies. Time was when Susan would have listened to this praise with smug complacency.

Fancy did but state the facts. And the mere recital of them exasperated the listener beyond endurance. Steel striking flint--and praise had become steel--provoked sparks.

"I be real vexed wi' 'ee, Fancy."

She bustled off with the tea-things, and remained absent so long that Fancy began to fear that she had really offended her. Solomon, however, rea.s.sured her on this point. They exchanged pleasant chat about Alfred.

Fancy felt jealous because Solomon would know when Alfred was coming at least five minutes before she did.

"You'll jump off the bed and bark."

Solomon wagged his tail.

"My! Won't he get wet if he comes to-night, Solly? Are you expecting him to-night, you wise little dog?"

Solomon put a cold nose into her hand. Mrs. Yellam's step was heard on the stairs. Solomon retired to his end of the bed, well aware that prolonged talk had been forbidden after tea.

Mrs. Yellam, seeing that Fancy was awake, said impressively:

"We be an island at this minute."

"Oh, dear!"

Mrs. Yellam a.s.sured her that it had often happened before. The cottage itself stood high above the encroaching waters. At highest flood they were not more than two feet deep.

"Alfred'll get so wet."