"No!" came from Mrs. Wade, brokenly, "I don't want no one. Just
let me alone."

The shattering anguish in his mother's voice startled Martin,
stirred within him tumultuous, veiled sensations. He was
unaccustomed to seeing her show suffering, and it embarrassed
him. Restless and uncomfortable, he was glad when his father
called him to help decide where to dig the grave, and fell the
timber from which to make a rough box. From time to time, through
the long night, he could not avoid observing his mother. In the
white moonlight, she and Benny looked as if they had been carved
from stone. Dawn was breaking over them when Wade, surrendering
to a surge of pity, put his arms around her with awkward
gentleness. "Ma, we got to bury 'im."

A low, half-suppressed sob broke from Mrs. Wade's tight lips as
she clasped the tiny figure and pressed her cheek against the
little head.

"I can't give him up," she moaned, "I can't! It wasn't so hard
with the others. Their sickness was the hand of God, but Benny
just ain't had enough to eat. Seems like it'll kill me."

With deepened discomfort, Martin hurried to the creek to water
the horses. It was good, he felt, to have chores to do. This
knowledge shot through him with the same thrill of discovery that
a man enjoys when he first finds what an escape from the solidity
of fact lies in liquor. If one worked hard and fast one could
forget. That was what work did. It made one forget--that moan,