horseback seemed to be gathered.  As the boy ran violently on, the group opened to make way for two men carrying some helpless but awful object between them.  A terrible instinct made Clarence swerve from it in his headlong course, but he was at the same moment discovered by the others, and a cry arose of “Go back!” “Stop!” “Keep him back!” Heeding it no more than the wind that whistled by him, Clarence made directly for the foremost wagon—­the one in which he and Susy had played.  A powerful hand caught his shoulder; it was Mr. Peyton’s.

“Mrs. Silsbee’s wagon,” said the boy, with white lips, pointing to it.  “Where is she?”

“She’s missing,” said Peyton, “and one other—­the rest are dead.”

“She must be there,” said the boy, struggling, and pointing to the wagon; “let me go.”

“Clarence,” said Peyton sternly, accenting his grasp upon the boy’s arm, “be a man!  Look around you.  Try and tell us who these are.”

There seemed to be one or two heaps of old clothes lying on the ground, and further on, where the men at a command from Peyton had laid down their burden, another.  In those ragged, dusty heaps of clothes, from which all the majesty of life seemed to have been ruthlessly stamped out, only what was ignoble and grotesque appeared to be left.  There was nothing terrible in this.  The boy moved slowly towards them; and, incredible even to himself, the overpowering fear of them that a moment before had overcome him left him as suddenly.  He walked from the one to the other, recognizing them by certain marks and signs, and mentioning name after name.  The groups gazed at him curiously; he was conscious that he scarcely understood himself, still less the same quiet purpose that made him turn towards the furthest wagon.

“There’s nothing there,” said Peyton; “we’ve searched it.”  But the boy, without replying, continued his way, and the crowd followed him.

The deserted wagon, more rude, disorderly, and slovenly than it had ever seemed to him before, was now heaped and tumbled with broken bones, cans, scattered provisions, pots, pans, blankets, and clothing in the foul confusion of a dust-heap.  But in this heterogeneous mingling the boy’s quick eye caught sight of a draggled edge of calico.

“That’s Mrs. Silsbee’s dress!” he cried, and leapt into the wagon.

At first the men stared at each other, but an instant later a dozen hands were helping him, nervously digging and clearing away the rubbish.  Then one man uttered a sudden cry, and fell back with frantic but furious eyes uplifted against the pitiless, smiling sky above him.

“Great God! look here!”

It was the yellowish, waxen face of Mrs. Silsbee that had been uncovered.  But to the fancy of the boy it had changed; the old familiar lines of worry, care, and querulousness had given way to a look of remote peace and statue-like repose.  He had often vexed her in her aggressive life; he was touched with remorse at her cold, passionless apathy now, and pressed timidly forward.  Even as he did so, the man, with a quick but warning gesture, hurriedly threw his handkerchief over the matted locks, as if to shut out something awful from his view.  Clarence felt himself drawn back; but not before the white lips of a bystander had whispered a single word—­