home. And he was escaping a lot of anguish, not by praying for
Bill's soul or his own forgiveness, but by the simple process of
harnessing a team and dragging a car through the mud. It was a
great game, work was--the one weapon with which to meet life.
This was not a cut and dried philosophy with him, but a glimmer
that, though always suggesting itself but dimly, never failed
when put to the test. Martin felt better. He began to probe a
little farther, albeit with an aimlessness about his questions
that almost frightened him. He asked himself whether he loved
Bill, now that he was dead, and he had to admit that he did not.
The boy had always been something other than he had expected --a
disappointment. Did he love anyone? No. Not a person; not even
any longer that lovely Rose of Sharon who had flowered in his
dust for a brief hour. His wife? God Almighty, no. Then who?
Himself? No, his very selfishness had other springs than that. He
was one of those men, not so uncommon either, he surmised, who
loved no one on the whole wide earth.

When he re-entered the house, he found his wife still seated in
the rocker, softly weeping, the tears flowing down her cheeks and
dropping unheeded into her lap. He pitied her.

"I feel as though he didn't die tonight," she mourned, looking at
Martin through full eyes. "He died when he was born, like the
first one."

"I know how you feel," said Martin, sympathy in his voice.

"I made him so many promises before he came, but I wasn't able to
keep a single one of them."