his index with a tragic gesture. John followed the direction of his

brother's hand.

In the bottom of a sandy hole lay something that had once been human.

The face had suffered severely, and it was unrecognizable; but that was

not required. The snowy hair, the coat of marten, the ventilating cloth,

the hygienic flannel--everything down to the health boots from Messrs

Dail and Crumbie's, identified the body as that of Uncle Joseph. Only

the forage cap must have been lost in the convulsion, for the dead man

was bareheaded.

'The poor old beggar!' said John, with a touch of natural feeling; 'I

would give ten pounds if we hadn't chivvied him in the train!'

But there was no sentiment in the face of Morris as he gazed upon the

dead. Gnawing his nails, with introverted eyes, his brow marked with

the stamp of tragic indignation and tragic intellectual effort, he stood

there silent. Here was a last injustice; he had been robbed while he was

an orphan at school, he had been lashed to a decadent leather business,

he had been saddled with Miss Hazeltine, his cousin had been defrauding

him of the tontine, and he had borne all this, we might almost say, with

dignity, and now they had gone and killed his uncle!

'Here!' he said suddenly, 'take his heels, we must get him into the

woods. I'm not going to have anybody find this.'

The Wrong Box