Confessional

It's a rather hot and sultry Sunday afternoon, and the sun overhead and the baked clay under foot are merciless. In the distance, lowering clouds give promise of coming relief. And at that parlor window of a trim little cottage the Baldwin family is anxiously awaiting the return of it's head. John, the son, an average young man of twenty-seven, is smoking a pipe as philosophically as if this day were in no whit more momentous than any other. But his mother, trying to compose herself with her knitting, has made little progress in the last half hour; and Evie, his sister, takes no pains to conceal her nervousness. There is a tense pause. It seems as if non of them likes to break the silence. For the tenth time in ten minutes, Evie goes to the window and looks out along the sultry road.