Across the hall she could hear Lucy moving briskly about in Dick's

room, changing the bedding, throwing up the windows, opening and closing

bureau drawers. After a time Lucy tapped at her door and she opened it.

"I put a cake of scented soap among your handkerchiefs," she said,

rather breathlessly. "Will you let me have it for Doctor Dick's room?"

She got the soap and gave it to her.

"He is going to stay, then?"

"Certainly he is going to stay," Lucy said, surprised. "This is his

home. Where else should he go?"

But David knew. He lay, listening with avid interest to Dick's story,

asking a question now and then, nodding over Dick's halting attempt to

reconstruct the period of his confusion, but all the time one part of

him, a keen and relentless inner voice, was saying: "Look at him well.

Hold him close. Listen to his voice. Because this hour is yours, and

perhaps only this hour."

"Then the Sayre woman doesn't know about your coming?" he asked, when

Dick had finished.

"Still, she mustn't talk about having seen you. I'll send Reynolds up in

the morning."

He was eager to hear of what had occurred in the long interval between

them, and good, bad and indifferent Dick told him. But he limited

himself to events, and did not touch on his mental battles, and David

saw and noted it. The real story, he knew, lay there, but it was not

time for it. After a while he raised himself in his bed.

"Call Lucy, Dick."

When she had come, a strangely younger Lucy, her withered cheeks flushed

with exercise and excitement, he said: "Bring me the copy of the statement I made to Harrison Miller, Lucy."

She brought it, patted Dick's shoulder, and went away. David held out

the paper.

"Read it slowly, boy," he said. "It is my justification, and God

willing, it may help you. The letter is from my brother, Henry. Read

that, too."

Lucy, having got Dick's room in readiness, sat down in it to await his

coming. Downstairs, in the warming oven, was his supper. His bed, with

the best blankets, was turned down and ready. His dressing-gown and

slippers were in their old accustomed place. She drew a long breath.

Below, Doctor Reynolds came in quietly and stood listening. The house

was very still, and he decided that his news, which was after all

no news, could wait. He went into the office and got out a sheet of

note-paper, with his name at the top, and began his nightly letter to

Clare Rossiter.




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