They made camp for the night a little to the north and east of the Deal place, taking from the wagon a collapsible corral consisting of yards and yards of muslin, one end of which they tied to the wagon wheel and then used stakes driven into the ground for temporary fence-posts around which to wrap the muslin.

After the children were in bed, the young fellows came to the house and talked with Will, but Abbie stayed in the bedroom. The next morning they went on to add their fine young courage and energy to the building of the state.

Only a few mornings later, Abbie sent Margaret out with the old dog to call Will in from the field, and told Mack to take John up to Reinmuellers. When Will came hurriedly in, he unhitched, threw a saddle on old Bird and rode over after Dr. Hornby. Sarah Lutz came riding out with the doctor in his cart and Christine came down, too. The baby was born in the afternoon.

Abbie, relaxing, was filled with that age-old gratitude that her ordeal was over. Peace enveloped her,—peace and relative ease. Her fourth child! How queer! Well, she would love it and care for it tenderly. Looking out in the other room she could see Will and the doctor, Christine and Sarah all close together. They were whispering. It seemed silent out there,—too silent,—a whispering silence. A great fright seized her, so that she raised herself up and called sharply, “Will!”

Will turned and came quickly into the bedroom.

“What’s the matter, Will? I can tell there’s something the matter.”

Will took Abbie’s hand. “It was a little son, Abbie.”

“ ‘Was,’ Will? Not . . . not . . .?”

“He didn’t live, Abbie-girl.”

“Oh . . . no . . . no!” She broke into wild sobbing. “Oh, God, not that. He’s all right, Will. Go see if he isn’t all right. My babies are always all right.”

But when Will did not go and only tried to quiet her, she had to believe it. She was inconsolable. “Will, it was because I didn’t want him at first.”

And when he tried to reason with her, she would not listen. “I know better than any one. I’m punished. I didn’t tell anybody. But I was bitter. And now I’ve lost my baby.” In her whole life Abbie Deal never cried so wildly.

Sarah Lutz dressed him,—Sarah, with her black beady eyes softened with tears. And then she brought him in,—a beautifully formed child with a face like a tiny white rose. Abbie wanted him beside her, wanted to hold him.

“My baby . . . he’s so cold, Will. I never had a cold baby. I want him to be warm.” She did not talk rationally. “I hate death and I’m afraid of it. But I did want him, Will. After a while I wanted him. It was just at first.” Rachel, who lives again in every grieving mother, was crying for her child and would not be comforted. And when she had worn out her hysteria and quieted, she said she wanted him to have a name. “Basil, Will,—after my father.” Sarah came in and smoothed her hair, talked to her gently, and said they were going to take him over and put him by Dannie and Grandpa Lutz.