Slowly the hours passed. From the street occasional stirrings
reached them faintly; but in the room only short breathing broke the
silence. As day dawned Moses, from his seat near the door, spoke:

"Mr. Laine?"

"Well." Laine did not look up.

"When dogs die do they live again?"

"I don't know."

"I don't reckon anybody knows. But that don't mean they don't. If I
was as certain I was fixed for heaven as I know Gineral is a-goin' to
be waitin' for you somewhere, I'd feel more reconcilement to death.
Some things can die and some things can't. There ain't no time limit
to love, Mr. Laine. I think"--Moses got up--"I think Gineral is
trying to make you understand something, sir."

Half an hour later Laine called Moses back into the room, gave a few
orders, changed his clothes, and without waiting for breakfast went
out, and not until dark did he come in again.

Dinner was a pretense, and presently he pushed his coffee aside,
lighted a cigar, and took up the evening paper. The headlines were
glaring, but he passed them quickly. Telegraphic news was skimmed,
stock reports and weather conditions glimpsed unheedingly, and the
editorial page ignored, and, finally, with a gesture of weariness, he
threw the paper on the floor and went into the library.