"You remember?" he went on, pointing. "He flung it down there. Just by
the door. Yes, it was just there, because I stood against the door, and
was only just clear of it."

He paused and his hand remained pointing at the spot where the mail bag
had lain. It was as if the spot held him fascinated. Then his arm
lowered slowly, and his hand came to rest on the edge of the table,
gripping it with unnecessary force.

"Seems queer," he went on, after a while. Then he shook his head. "Think
of it. Nancy--my Nancy. Dead! She died giving birth to my boy. And
he--he was stillborn. Why? I--I can't seem to realize it. I--don't--" He
paused, and a strained, hunted look grew in his eyes. "No. It's easy.
It's just Fate. That's it. There's no escape."

He drew a deep breath and one lean hand smoothed back his shining black
hair. Then his eyes came back to the face of the man opposite, and the
agony in them was beyond words. After a moment their terrible expression
became lost as he bent over his work. "I'm glad you're back, Bat," he
said, without looking up.

"There's a hell of a lot of orders to get out. We're running close up
to winter."

The lumberman understood. At a single blow this man's every hope had
been smashed and ground under the heel of an iron fate. The wife, the
woman he had worshipped, had given her life to serve him, and with her
had gone the man-child, about whom had been woven the entire network of
a father's hopes and desires.