moment discovered by the others, and a cry arose of "Go back!" "Stop!"
"Keep him back!" Heeding it no more than the wind that whistled by him,
Clarence made directly for the foremost wagon--the one in which he
and Susy had played. A powerful hand caught his shoulder; it was Mr.
Peyton's.

"Mrs. Silsbee's wagon," said the boy, with white lips, pointing to it.
"Where is she?"

"She's missing," said Peyton, "and one other--the rest are dead."

"She must be there," said the boy, struggling, and pointing to the
wagon; "let me go."

"Clarence," said Peyton sternly, accenting his grasp upon the boy's arm,
"be a man! Look around you. Try and tell us who these are."

There seemed to be one or two heaps of old clothes lying on the ground,
and further on, where the men at a command from Peyton had laid down
their burden, another. In those ragged, dusty heaps of clothes, from
which all the majesty of life seemed to have been ruthlessly stamped
out, only what was ignoble and grotesque appeared to be left. There
was nothing terrible in this. The boy moved slowly towards them; and,
incredible even to himself, the overpowering fear of them that a moment
before had overcome him left him as suddenly. He walked from the one to
the other, recognizing them by certain marks and signs, and mentioning
name after name. The groups gazed at him curiously; he was conscious
that he scarcely understood himself, still less the same quiet purpose
that made him turn towards the furthest wagon.