To have David go away for the long-anticipated trip with Dr.

Lavendar, was a relief to Helena struggling up from a week of profound

prostration. Most of the time she had been in bed, only getting up to

sit with David at breakfast and supper, to take what comfort she might

in the little boy's joyous but friendly unconcern. He was full of

importance in the prospect of his journey; there was to be one night

on a railroad-car, which in itself was a serious experience; another

in an hotel; hotel! David glowed at the word.

In Philadelphia they were to see the sights in the morning; in the afternoon, to be sure,

Dr. Lavendar had warned him that it would be necessary to sit still

while some one talked. However, it is never necessary to listen. After

the talking, they would go and see the ships at the wharves, and

Liberty Bell. Then--David's heart sank; bed loomed before him, But it

would be an hotel bed;--there was some comfort in that! Besides, it is

never necessary to sleep. The next day going home on the cars they

would see the Horseshoe Curve; the very words made his throat swell

with excitement.

"Did the locomotive engine ever drop off of it?" he asked Helena.

"No, dear," she said languidly, but with a smile. She always had a

smile for David.

After the Horseshoe Curve there would be a night at Mercer. Mercer, of

course, was less exciting than Philadelphia; still, it was

"travelling," and could be boasted of at recess. But as David thought

of Mercer, he had a bleak revelation. For weeks his mind had been on

this journey; beyond it, his thought did not go. Now, there rushed

upon him the staggering knowledge that after the night in Mercer,

life would still go on! Yes, he would be at home; in Miss Rose

Knight's school-room; at supper with Mrs. Richie. It is a heavy

moment, this first consciousness that nothing lasts. It made David

feel sick; he put his spoon down and looked at Mrs. Richie. "I shall

be back," he said blankly.

And at that her eyes filled. "Yes, darling! Won't that be nice!"

And yet his absence for the next few days would be a relief to her.

She could think the whole thing out, she said to herself. She had not

been well enough to think clearly since Lloyd had gone. To adjust her

mind to the bitter finality meant swift oscillations of hate and the

habit of affection--the spirit warring with the flesh. She would never

see him again;--she would send for him! she despised him;--what should

she do without him? Yet she never wavered about David. She had made

her choice. William King's visit had not shaken her decision for an

instant; it had only frightened her horribly. How should she defend

herself? She meant to think it all out, undisturbed by the sweet

interruptions of David's presence. And yet she knew she should miss

him every minute of his absence. Miss him? If Dr. King had known what

even three days without David would mean to her, he would not have

wasted his breath in suggesting that she should give him up! Yet the

possibility of such a thing had the allurement of terror; she played

with the thought, as a child, wincing, presses a thorn into its flesh

to see how long it can bear the smart. Suppose, instead of this three

days' trip with Dr. Lavendar, David was going away to stay? The mere

question made her catch him in her arms as if to assure herself he was

hers.




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