usually reserved for the garden. She then waited as patiently as her sex would permit, for him to broach his business, but he was at first strangely silent. 

 “I—was asked to call,” he said at last, and stooped and picked a piece of cotton from his trousers. “I come from ‘Maw and Meggins.’” 

 The old lady started. “Is anything the matter?” she asked, breathlessly. “Has anything happened to Herbert? What is it? What is it?” 

 Her husband interposed. “There, there, mother,” he said, hastily. “Sit down, and don’t jump to conclusions. You’ve not brought bad news, I’m sure, sir;” and he eyed the other wistfully. 

 “I’m sorry—” began the visitor. 

 “Is he hurt?” demanded the mother, wildly. 

 The visitor bowed in assent. “Badly hurt,” he said, quietly, “but he is not in any pain.” 

 “Oh, thank God!” said the old woman, clasping her hands. “Thank God for that! Thank—” 

 She broke off suddenly as the sinister meaning of the assurance dawned upon her and she saw the awful confirmation of her fears in the other’s averted face. She caught her breath, and turning to her slower-witted husband, laid her trembling old hand upon his. There was a long silence. 

 “He was caught in the machinery,” said the visitor at length in a low voice. 

 “Caught in the machinery,” repeated Mr. White, in a dazed fashion, “yes.” 

 He sat staring blankly out at the window, and taking his wife’s hand between his own, pressed it as he had been wont to do in their old courting-days nearly forty years before. 

 “He was the only one left to us,” he said, turning gently to the visitor. “It is hard.” 

 The other coughed, and rising, walked slowly to the window. “The firm wished me to convey their sincere sympathy with you in your great loss,” he said, without looking round. “I beg that you will understand I am only their servant and merely obeying orders.” 

 There was no reply; the old woman’s face was white, her eyes staring, and her breath inaudible; on the husband’s face was a look such as 

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