Standing in the black group under gaunt trees at the cemetery, three days later, Bibbs unwillingly let an old, old thought become definite in his mind: the sickly brother had buried the strong brother, and Bibbs wondered how many million times that had happened since men first made a word to name the sons of one mother.

Almost literally he had buried his strong brother, for Sheridan had gone to pieces when he saw his dead son.

He had nothing to help him meet the shock, neither definite religion nor "philosophy" definite or indefinite.

He could only beat his forehead and beg, over and over, to be killed with an ax, while his wife was helpless except to entreat him not to "take on," herself adding a continuous lamentation.

Edith, weeping, made truce with Sibyl and saw to it that the mourning garments were beyond criticism.