We have already seen that Uncle Sheba was one of those philosophers who always submit to the inevitable.
Late one September night the moonbeams shone under the moss-draped branches of a live oak in a cemetery. They brought out in snowy whiteness a small headstone on which were engraved the words, "Yes, Vilet." Sitting by the grave and leaning his head against the stone was Kern Watson, but his calm, strong face was turned heavenward where his little girl waited for him "shuah."