He walked from the one to the other, recognizing them by certain marks and signs, and mentioning name after name.

The groups gazed at him curiously; he was conscious that he scarcely understood himself, still less the same quiet purpose that made him turn towards the furthest wagon.
"There's nothing there," said Peyton; "we've searched it." But the boy, without replying, continued his way, and the crowd followed him.
The deserted wagon, more rude, disorderly, and slovenly than it had ever seemed to him before, was now heaped and tumbled with broken bones, cans, scattered provisions, pots, pans, blankets, and clothing in the foul confusion of a dust-heap.

But in this heterogeneous mingling the boy's quick eye caught sight of a draggled edge of calico.
"That's Mrs.Silsbee's dress!" he cried, and leapt into the wagon.
At first the men stared at each other, but an instant later a dozen hands were helping him, nervously digging and clearing away the rubbish.
Then one man uttered a sudden cry, and fell back with frantic but furious eyes uplifted against the pitiless, smiling sky above him.
"Great God! look here!" It was the yellowish, waxen face of Mrs.Silsbee that had been uncovered.

But to the fancy of the boy it had changed; the old familiar lines of worry, care, and querulousness had given way to a look of remote peace and statue-like repose.

He had often vexed her in her aggressive life; he was touched with remorse at her cold, passionless apathy now, and pressed timidly forward.