"Daddy's killed himself," said Bill, and turned to rush back, followed
by Mr. Jennings and Milton.
While on the way across the field Bill told how it all happened.
"He wouldn't go to bed, the old lady couldn't make him, and when I got
up this morning I didn't think nothin' about it. I s'posed, of course,
he'd gone to bed all right; but when I was going out to the barn I
stumbled across something in the snow, and I felt around, and there he
was. He got hold of my revolver someway. It was on the shelf by the
washstand, and I s'pose he went out there so 't we wouldn't hear him. I
dassn't touch him," he said, with a shiver; "and the old woman, she jest
slumped down in a chair an' set there--wouldn't do a thing--so I come
over to see you."
Milton's heart swelled with remorse. He felt guilty because he had not
gone directly for the doctor. To think that the old sufferer had killed
himself was horrible and seemed impossible.
The wind was blowing the snow, cold and dry, across the yard, but the
sun shone brilliantly upon the figure in the snow as they came up to it.
There Daddy lay. The snow was in his scant hair and in the hollow of his
wide, half-naked chest. A pistol was in his hand, but there was no mark
upon him, and Milton's heart leaped with quick relief. It was delirium,
not suicide.
There was a sort of majesty in the figure half buried in the snow. His
hands were clenched, and there was a frown of resolution on his face, as
if he had fancied Death coming, and had gone defiantly forth to meet
him.