of lukewarm water. A very quiet despair was in his heart, a weary peace that brooded too upon the house of death and tumult, that flowed, like a soft exploring wind, through its dark halls, bathing all things quietly with peace and weariness. The boarders had fled like silly sheep to the two houses across the street: they had eaten there, they were clustered there upon the porches, whispering. And their going brought him peace and freedom, as if his limbs had been freed from a shackling weight. Eliza, amid the slow smoke of the kitchen, wept more quietly over the waste of supper; he saw the black mournful calm of the negress’s face. He walked slowly up the dark hall, with a handkerchief tied loosely round his wound. He felt suddenly the peace that comes with despair. The sword that pierces very deep had fared through the folds of his poor armor of pride. The steel had sheared his side, had bitten to his heart. But under his armor he had found himself. No more than himself could be known. No more than himself could be given. What he was—he was: evasion and pretense could not add to his sum. With all his heart he was glad.
By the door, in the darkness, he found Laura James.
“I thought you had gone with the others,” he said.
“No,” said Laura James, “how is your father?”
“He’s all right now. He’s gone to sleep,” he answered. “Have you had anything to eat?”
“No,” she said, “I didn’t want it.”
“I’ll bring you something from the kitchen,” he said. “There’s plenty there.” In a moment he added: “I’m sorry, Laura.”
“What are you sorry for?” she asked.
He leaned against the wall limply, drained of his strength at her touch.
“Eugene. My dear,” she said. She pulled his drooping face down to her lips and kissed him. “My sweet, my darling, don’t look like that.”
All his resistance melted from him. He seized her small hands, crushing them in his hot fingers, and devouring them with kisses.
“My dear Laura! My dear Laura!” he said in a choking voice. “My sweet, my beautiful Laura! My lovely Laura. I love
