leaves were still green and abundant. Only one or two showed
signs of the coming change, which in the course of a few weeks
must leave them bare and leafless.

"What a beautiful day!" said Frank, speaking the words almost
unconsciously.

"Beautiful indeed!" responded his mother. "On such a day as this
the world seems too lovely for war and warlike passions to be
permitted to enter it. When men might be so happy, why need they
stain their hands with each other's blood?"

Frank was unprepared for an answer. He knew that it was his
father's departure which led his mother to speak thus. He wished
to divert her mind, if possible.

Circumstances favored his design.

They had accomplished perhaps three-quarters of the distance home
when, as they were passing a small one-story building by the
roadside, a shriek of pain was heard, and a little black boy came
running out of the house, screaming in affright: "Mammy's done
killed herself. She's mos' dead!"

He ran out to the road and looked up at Mrs. Frost, as if to
implore assistance.

"That's Chloe's child," said Mrs. Frost. "Stop the horse, Frank;
I'll get out and see what has happened."