wreck several miles from where they found my mother nearly crazed and with no baggage beyond this little tin box and the clothes she wore. Grief and exposure had driven her almost out of her mind, and in her ravings, they tell me, she talked continuously about 'the brakes' and 'that glaring headlight.' And then, toward the end, she spoke of her husband and said she couldn't wake him up to speak to her. There is small doubt in my mind but that he died in the wreck. Mother died the night I was born, and until I was ten I lived in the poorhouse. Then I was hired out to a farmer, and the third year on his place I met Betty, who came to spend the summer there. An old bookman, investigating a pile of old books and records at the poorhouse, found that Saunders was my mother's maiden name and he traced my relatives for me."
Bob briefly sketched his trip to Washington and his experiences there, and during the recital the aunts learned a great deal about Betty, too. Their first shock at hearing that their sister had died in the poorhouse gradually lessened, but they were still puzzled to account for the three years' silence that had preceded his birth.
"I'll tell you how I think it was," said Bob. "This is only conjecture, mind. I think my father wasn't successful in a business way, and he must have wanted to give my mother com-
