The little boy turned his head and stretched out his thin, blood-stained
arms. She ran toward him and snatched him from the young farmer.

"Hungry, mamma," he sobbed, hiding his face on her shoulder.

* * * * *

Howard wrote his story on the train, going down to New York. It was a
straightforward chronicle of just what he had seen and heard. He began at
the beginning--the little mountain home, the family of three, the
disappearance of the child. He described the perils of the mountains, the
storm, the search, the wait, the listening mother, scene by scene, ending
with mother and child together again and the dog racing around them, with
wagging tail and hanging tongue. He wrote swiftly, making no changes,
without a trace of his usual self-consciousness in composition. When he had
done he went into the restaurant car and dined almost gaily. He felt that
he had failed again. How could he hope to tell such a story? But he was not
despondent. He was still under the spell of that intense human drama with
its climax of joy. His own concerns seemed secondary, of no consequence.

He reached the office at half-past nine, handed in his "copy" and went
away. He was in bed at half-past ten and was at once asleep. At eleven the
next morning a knocking awakened him from a sound sleep that had restored
and refreshed him. "A messenger from the office," was called through the
door in answer to his inquiry. He took the note from the boy and tore it
open:

"My dear Mr. Howard: Thank you for the splendid story you gave us last
night. It is one of the best, if not the best, we have had the pleasure of