their own room.

"William, William," she moaned, "what shall we do? It's father and
mother; they've--oh, William, how can I tell you!" and she covered her
face with her hands.

William paled under his coat of tan. He gripped his wife's arm with
fingers that hurt.

"What is it--what's happened?" he asked hoarsely. "They aren't hurt or--
dead?"

"No, no," choked Sarah Ellen. "I didn't mean to frighten you. They're
all right that way. They--they've gone to work! William, what
shall we do?"

Again William Whipple gripped his wife's arm with fingers that hurt.

"Sarah Ellen, quit that crying, for Heaven's sake! What does this mean?
What are you talking about?" he demanded.

Sarah Ellen sopped her eyes with her handkerchief and lifted her head.

"It was this morning. I was over to Maria Weston's," she explained
brokenly. "Maria dropped something about a quilt mother was piecing for
her, and when I asked her what in the world she meant, she looked queer,
and said she supposed I knew. Then she tried to change the subject; but
I wouldn't let her, and finally I got the whole story out of her."

"Yes, yes, go on," urged William impatiently, as Sarah Ellen paused for