At last he raised his head. His voice, like his face, was tensely drawn.
"Ernestine, don't bother to stay. Probably you want to be seeing about
dinner, and I--I don't feel like talking."
That too she understood. She only laid her hand for the moment upon his
hair. Then: "Call me, dear, if you want me," and she slipped away, and in
a little nook under the stairs sat looking out into their strange future
with wondering, beseeching eyes--seeking passionately better resources, a
more sustaining strength.
Left alone the man sat very still, his hands holding tight the arm of the
chair. The tide of despair was coming in, was washing over the sands of
resignation, beating against the rocks of courage. Many times before it
had come in, but there was something overwhelming in its volume to-night.
It beat hard against the rocks. Was it within its power to loosen and
carry them away? Carry them out with itself to be gone for all time?
He rose and felt his way to the window. He pressed his hot forehead
against the pane.
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