He had not told her what he knew about Jim's companion that night. She

would never have understood. In her simple and child-like faith she

knew that her boy sat that day among the blessed company of heaven. He

himself believed that Jim had gone forgiven into whatever lay behind the

veil we call death, had gone shriven and clean before the Judge who knew

the urge of youth and life. He did not fear for Jim. He only missed him.

He walked around the block that night, a stooped commonplace figure, the

dog at his heels. Now and then he spoke to him, for companionship.

At the corner he stopped and looked along the side street toward the

Livingstone house. And as he looked he sighed. Jim and Nina, and now

Elizabeth. Jim and Nina were beyond his care now. He could do no more.

But what could he do for Elizabeth? That, too, wasn't that beyond him?

He stood still, facing the tragedy of his helplessness, beset by vague

apprehensions. Then he went on doggedly, his hands clasped behind him,

his head sunk on his breast.

He lay awake for a long time that night, wondering whether he and Dick

had been quite fair to Elizabeth. She should, he thought, have been

told. Then, if Dick's apprehensions were justified, she would have had

some preparation. As it was--Suppose something turned up out there,

something that would break her heart?

He had thought Margaret was sleeping, but after a time she moved and

slipped her hand into his. It comforted him. That, too, was life. Very

soon now they would be alone together again, as in the early days before

the children came. All the years and the struggle, and then back where

they started. But still, thank God, hand in hand.

Ever since the night of Jim's death Mrs. Sayre had been a constant

visitor to the house. She came in, solid, practical, and with an

everyday manner neither forcedly cheerful nor too decorously mournful,

which made her very welcome. After the three first days, when she

had practically lived at the house, there was no necessity for small

pretensions with her. She knew the china closet and the pantry, and the

kitchen. She had even penetrated to Mr. Wheeler's shabby old den on

the second floor, and had slept a part of the first night there on the

leather couch with broken springs which he kept because it fitted his

body.

She was a kindly woman, and she had ached with pity. And, because of her

usual detachment from the town and its affairs, the feeling that she

was being of service gave her a little glow of content. She liked the

family, too, and particularly she liked Elizabeth. But after she had

seen Dick and Elizabeth together once or twice she felt that no plan she

might make for Wallace could possibly succeed. Lying on the old leather

couch that first night, between her frequent excursions among the waking

family, she had thought that out and abandoned it.




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