“Stafford says he’ll look them up, sir,” said he.  “He told me to tell you that the case was the one you were asking Senator Barrow about.”

“Ah!” said the Higher Official.

He sat for some time in deep thought.  Then he called through the open door to his stenographer.

“In re your’s 21st,” he dictated, “I repose every confidence in Mr. Stafford’s judgment; and unless I should care to supersede him, it would hardly be proper for me to carry any matter over his head.”

Thorne immediately resigned, and shortly went into landlooking for a lumbering firm in Oregon.  Chairman Gay wrote a letter advising Plant to “adopt a policy of conciliation toward the turbulent element.”

XIX

Shortly after Bob’s return in the early spring, George Pollock rode to Auntie Belle’s in some disorder to say that the little girl, now about a year old, had been taken sick.

“Jenny has a notion it’s something catching,” said he, “so she won’t let Jim send Mary over.  There’s too many young-uns in that family to run any risks.”

“How does she seem?” called Auntie Belle from the bedroom where she was preparing for departure.

“She’s got a fever, and is restless, and won’t eat,” said George anxiously.  “She looks awful sick to me.”

“They all do at that age,” said Auntie Belle comfortably; “don’t you worry a mite.”

Nevertheless Auntie Belle did not return that day, nor the next, nor the next.  When finally she appeared, it was only to obtain certain supplies and clothes.  These she caused to be brought out and laid down where she could get them.  She would allow nobody to come near her.

“It’s scarlet fever,” she said, “and Lord knows where the child got it.  But we won’t scatter it, so you-all stay away.  I’ll do what I can.  I’ve been through it enough times, Lord knows.”

Three days later she appeared again, very quietly.

“How’s the baby?” asked Bob.  “Better, I hope?”

“The poor little thing is dead,” said Auntie Belle shortly, “and I want you or somebody to ride down for the minister.”

The community attended the funeral in a body.  It was held in the open air, under a white oak tree, for Auntie Belle, with unusual caution and knowledge for the mountains, refused to permit even a chance of spreading the contagion.  The mother appeared dazed.  She sat through the services without apparent consciousness of what was going on; she suffered herself to be led to the tiny enclosure where all the Pollocks of other generations had been buried; she allowed herself to be led away again.  There was in the brief and pathetic ceremony no meaning and no pain for her.  The father, on the other hand, seemed crushed.  So broken was his figure that, after the services, Bob was impelled to lay his hand on the man’s shoulder and mutter a few incoherent but encouraging words.  The mountaineer looked up dully, but sharpened to comprehension and gratitude as his eyes met those of the tall, vigorous young man leaning over him.