"
CHAPTER XXVIII
WITH BROKEN SWORD
He wished that Ernestine would come home. He had let Ross go at four, and
it was lonesome there alone. In spite of the fact that she was away so
much, Ernestine was almost always there when he wanted her most. That was
just one of the wonderful things about Ernestine. Something must have
detained her to-day.
He reached over on the table for his copy of "Faust." It had become his
habit to pick it up when he did not care to sit face to face with his own
thoughts. It seemed to hold some word for everything in life. Its
universality made it a good friend.
It was becoming easier to read with his fingers, but he had never come
into the old joy in reading that there had been in the days when he could
_see_ it. And it seemed to him that there was an unnecessary clumsiness
about the whole thing. He had worked out a little idea of his own for
which he was going to have a model made. He believed it might help
some--at any rate he had enjoyed working it out.
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