perversely objecting to the faultless costume. But, looking at the
frock-coat, she perceived mourning-band upon the sleeve. Another
encircled his glittering tall hat.

"Not--oh, Bob!--not your mother?" she gasped.

He shook his head, and asked a question about her luggage.

"Aunt Rose--your uncle--?"

"Oh, Aunt Deb--don't! She is my aunt, I know, but he--" Bob spread
deprecating hands. "They are both well, I believe. I think I heard that
the fiftieth baby arrived last week. Is that your maid in the brown--"

"Oh, but, Bob--tell me--they haven't lost any of those nice children,
I do trust!"

"I should hardly have been in mourning on their account. No--fat and
tough as little pigs, by the look of them. It is my father, Aunt Deb. I
thought you knew." "What!" She stopped on their way towards Rosalie and
the luggage van. "You don't say--"

"Yes--a couple of months ago. The mater wrote to you."

"I have been wandering from place to place--the letter never reached me."

"Pneumonia, supervening upon influenza--that is what the doctors
called it; but it was really a complication of disorders, some of them
of long standing. Between you and me, Aunt Deb, he took a great deal
more than was good for him latterly, and that told upon him. His blood