She turned to the house, kicking the newly cut grass with her foot,
walking slowly. She was waiting for something--fighting for it. Karl
needed her to-night, needed courage and cheer.
She came so quietly, or else he was so deep in thought, that he did not
hear her. For a minute she stood there in the library door.
He was sitting in his Morris chair, his hands upon the arms of it, his
head leaning back. His eyes were closed, one could not tell in that
moment that he was blind, but it was more than the dimness, the blankness
in his eyes, more than scarred eyeballs, made for the change in Karl's
face. He and life did not dwell together as they had once; a freedom and
a gladness and a sureness had gone. The loss of those things meant
the loss of something fundamentally Karl. And the sadness--and the
longing--and the marks of struggle which the light of courage could not
hide!
She choked a little, and he heard her, and held out his hand, with a
smile. It was the smile which came closest to bridging the change.
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