protest than a frown and a growl, to swallow the despised drugs.

Each day he made them carry him in his great chair into HER
bedroom. And there he sat all day long, his shaggy brows down,
his gaze rarely wandering from the little ridge her small body
made in the high white bed; and in his stern eyes there was a
look of stoic anguish. Each night, as they were carrying him to
his own room, they took him near the bed; and he leaned forward,
and the voice that in all their years had never been anything but
gentle for her said: "Good night, Sallie." And the small form
would move slightly, there would be a feeble turning of the head,
a wan smile on the little old face, a soft "Good night,
Bladen."

It was on Hampden's ninth day at home that the old man said
"Good night, Sallie," and there was no answer--not even a stir.
They did not offer to carry him in the next morning; nor did he
turn his face from the wall. She died that day; he three days
later--he had refused food and medicine; he had not shed a tear
or made a sound.

Thus the journey side by side for fifty-one years was a journey
no longer. They were asleep side by side on the hillside for
ever.

Hampden stayed at home only one day after the funeral. He came
back to Battle Field apparently unchanged. He was not in black,
for Bladen Scarborough abhorred mourning as he abhorred all
outward symbols of the things of the heart. But after a week he
told Pauline about it; and as he talked she sobbed, though his