very eyes. Why, only day before yesterday, when his temperature was 104, she was talking to Old Doctor Doak about a lot. Did you know that?”
“Forget about it!” he said frantically. “She’ll always be like that! It’s not her fault. Can’t you see that? O God, how horrible! How horrible!”
“Poor old mama!” said Helen, beginning to weep. “She’ll never get over this. She’s scared to death! Did you see her eyes? She knows, of course she knows!”
Then suddenly, with mad brooding face, she said: “Sometimes I think I hate her! I really think I hate her.” She plucked at her large chin, absently. “Well, we mustn’t talk like this,” she said. “It’s not right. Cheer up. We’re all tired and nervous. I believe he’s going to get all right yet.”
Day came gray and chill, with a drear reek of murk and fog. Eliza bustled about eagerly, pathetically busy, preparing breakfast. Once she hurried awkwardly upstairs with a kettle of water, and stood for a second at the door as Bessie Gant opened it, peering in at the terrible bed, with her white puckered face. Bessie Gant blocked her further entrance, and closed the door rudely. Eliza went away making flustered apologies.
For, what the girl had said was true, and Eliza knew it. She was not wanted in the sick-room; the dying boy did not want to see her. She had seen him turn his head wearily away when she had gone in. Behind her white face dwelt this horror, but she made no confession, no complaint. She bustled around doing useless things with an eager matter-of-factness. And Eugene, choked with exasperation at one moment, because of her heavy optimism, was blind with pity the next when he saw the terrible fear and pain in her dull black eyes. He rushed toward her suddenly, as she stood above the hot stove, and seized her rough worn hand, kissing it and babbling helplessly.
“O mama! Mama! It’s all right! It’s all right! It’s all right.”
And Eliza, stripped suddenly of her pretenses, clung to him, burying her white face in his coat sleeve, weeping bitterly, helplessly, grievously, for the sad waste of the irrevocable years— the immortal hours of love that might never be relived, the great
