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When the journey was little more than half done, the six bearers stepping with infinite care, Van Brunt began to groan aloud. Uncle Hank was walking at his head, watching his face.

“Where hurts you boy? Does it joggle past bearin’? Ought we put you down and rest you a spell?”

He failed to catch the whispered reply at first. The bearers halted, and he leaned closer.

“No.” Van Brunt motioned feebly with his hand. “Get on, boys ... I want to see the baby, before—”

The big fellows carrying the blanket moved ahead, stepping short, watching pitifully. Charley groaned outright at every stride now; Hilda, beside him, moaned, too. Her eyes were so blinded with crying that she did not see the ranch house when it came in sight. Going up the long, tree-lined avenue to the front door, Uncle Hank bent and spoke to her.

“Go in ahead, Pettie. Tell your aunt that your father’s bad hurt, and we’re bringing him.”

Hilda had a sense of flying, of getting to the house at a single step. It happened that Aunt Val was just coming down the stairs. Hilda cried out her communication as it had been given, and turned back to the bearers, who were toiling up the porch steps.