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.