The home of District Messenger 3457, who was known in private life as Bobby Wentworth, was what is technically called a basement kitchen.

Take it between four and five in the afternoon, which was a couple of hours before Bobby was expected home, and in consequence, at least an hour and a half before anything was astir in the way of supper, things got sort of lonesome looking and dull to Sis, daughter of the house. Ten to one that the baby—the tow-headed youngest—was a bit fussy; ten to one the mother gave you a sharp answer if you spoke to her, though, considering everything, she was remarkably patient; ten to one that every torn and cracked thing in the room became so conspicuous that you felt like a poor lone orphan girl and wanted to cry. If you did n\'t live below the sidewalk this was apt to go on until it was time to get supper, but here, in order to see to do the mending, the lamp was lighted, even in May, an hour or so earlier than the fire.

Then what a change! Instantly it was as though every one was tucked in from the night as children get tucked into bed. Not being able to see out of the windows any longer it was possible to imagine out there what one wished,—a big field, for instance, sprinkled over with flowers. The dull grays on wall and ceiling became brightened as though mixed with gold fire paint. Everything snuggled in closer; the kitchen table covered with a red table-cloth, the mirror with putty in the centre of the crack to keep the pieces from falling out, the kitchen stove, the wooden chairs, the iron sink with the tin dishes hanging over it, and the shelf on the wall with the wooden clock ticking cheerfully away, all closed in noiselessly nearer to the lamp. Ten to one that now mother glanced up with a smile; ten to one that the baby chuckled and fell to playing with his toes if he could n\'t find anything better within reach; ten to one there was nothing in the room that did n\'t look almost new. One thing was certain,—the light did n\'t reveal any dirt that would come off for there was n\'t any. Mrs. Wentworth\'s New England ancestry and training had survived even the blows of a hard luck which had n\'t fought her fair.

On this particular night Sis had just lost herself in her thumbworn volume of Grimm\'s Fairy Tales when—there came a kick on the outside door and the sound of two voices coming down the short hall. The next minute Bobby entered with his clothes all mud and behind him a strange gentleman.

It was evident that something had happened to the boy, but the mother did not scream. She was not that kind. Her lips tightened as she braced herself for whatever this new decree of Fate might be. In a jiffy Bobby, who recognized that look as the same he had seen when they had brought Daddy home, was at her side.

"Cheer up, Mumsy," he exclaimed. "Nothin\' doin\' in caskits this time."

She lifted her thin, angular face from the boy to Donaldson. The latter explained,

"He got tangled up a bit with an automobile, but I guess the machine got the worst of it. At any rate your boy is all right."

The mother passed her hand over the lad\'s head, expressing a world of tenderness in the act.

"It was kind of you to bring him home," she said.

The directness of the woman, her self control, her simplicity, enlisted Donaldson\'s interest at once. He had expected hysterics. He would have staked his last dollar that the woman came from Vermont. His observant eyes had in these few minutes covered everything in the room, including the long-handled dipper by the faucet used for dipping into pails sweating silver mist, the wooden clock upon the mantelpiece, and the Hicks Almanac hanging below it. He felt as though he were standing in a Berringdon kitchen with acres of green outside the windows sweeping in a circle off to the little hills, the acres of forest green, and the big hills beyond.

The mother stepped forward and brushed the mud from Bobby\'s coat. The baby screwed up his face for a howl to call attention to his neglect in the midst of all this excitement.

"What\'s this?" exclaimed Bobby, picking him up with as substantial an air of paternity as though he were forty. "What\'s this? Goneter cry afore a stranger?"

He held the child up to Donaldson.

"The kid," he announced laconically. "What yuh think of him?"
"The kid," he announced laconically. "What yuh think of him?"
"The kid," he announced laconically. "What yuh think of him?"

"Corker," answered Donaldson. "Let me hold him."

"Sure. Get a chair for the gent, Sis."

In another minute Donaldson found himself sitting by the kitchen stove with a chuckling youngster on his knee. No one paid any attention to him; just took him for granted as a friend until he felt as though he had been one of the family all his life. Besides, the centre of the stage rightly belonged to Bobby, who was occupying it with something of a swagger in his walk.

"Well, I hope this will teach you a lesson, Bobby Wentworth," scolded the mother, now that after various proddings she had determined to her satisfaction that none of the boy\'s bones were broken. "I wish to the Lord you was back where the hills are so steep there ain\'t no automobiles."

Donaldson broke in.

"You were brought up in the country, Mrs. Wentworth?"

"Laws, yes, and lived there most of my life."

"In New England?"

"Berringdon, Vermont."

"Berringdon? Your husband was n\'t one of the Wentworth boys?"

"He was Jim Wentworth, the oldest"

"Well, well! Then you are Sally Burnham."

"And you," she hesitated, "I do b\'lieve you \'re Peter Donaldson."

"Yes," he said, "I \'m Peter Donaldson."

The name from her lips took on its boyhood meaning. He shifted the youngster to his arms and crossing the room held out his hand to her.

"We did n\'t know each other very well in those days, but from now on—from now on we \'re old friends, are n\'t we?"

The steel blue eyes grew moist.

"It\'s a long time," she said, "since I \'ve seen any one from there."

"Or I. You left—"

"When I was married. Jim came here because his cousin got him a job as motorman. He done well,—but he was killed by his car just after the baby was born."

"Killed? That\'s tough. And it left you all alone with the children?"

"Yes. The road paid us a little, but I was sick and the children were sick, so it did n\'t last long."

She was not complaining. It was a bare recital of facts. But it raised a series of keen incisive thoughts in Donaldson\'s brain.

Wentworth had been killed. Chance had deprived this woman of her man; Chance had grabbed at her boy; Chance had sent Donaldson to save the latter; Chance—Donaldson caught his breath at the possibility the sequence suggested—Chance may have sent him to offset as far as possible the husband\'s death. It was too late, although he felt the obligation in a new light, for him to give his life for the life of that other, but there was one other thing he could do. He could play the father with what he had left of himself. So that when he came to face Wentworth—he smiled gently at the approaching possibility—he could hold his head high as he went to meet him.

He had argued to Barstow that he was shirking no responsibilities,—but what of such unseen responsibilities as this? What of the thousand others that he should die too soon to realize? It was possible that countless other such opportunities as this must be wasted because he should not be there to play his part. But there was still time to do something; he need not see, as with the girl and with love, the fine possibilities go utterly to waste.

The mother had noticed a warm light steal over his face, not realizing how closely his thoughts concerned her own future; she had seen the sabre cut of pain which had followed his thought of the girl and what she might have meant, knowing nothing of that grim tragedy. Now she saw his eyes clear as with their inspired light they were lifted to her. Yet the talk went on uninterruptedly on the same commonplace level.

"How old was Jim?"

"He was within a week of thirty."

That was within a few days of his own age. At thirty, Jim Wentworth, clinging to life, had been wrenched from it; at thirty, he himself had thrown it away. Wentworth had shouldered his duties manfully; he had been blind to them. But it was not too late to do something. He was being led as by Marley\'s ghost to one new vision of life after another. He saw love—with death grinning over love\'s shoulder; he was to be given a taste of fatherhood,—the grave at his feet.

"Do you ever hear from the people back home?" he asked abruptly.

"Not very often," she answered. "After the old folks went I sorter got out of tech with the others."

"What became of the homestead?"

"It was sold little by little when father was sick. When he died there was n\'t much left. That went to pay the debts."

"Who lives there now?"

"Let ............