His father came home before very long. He was gentle with Stacey, asked him no questions, tried even to veil the look of apprehensiveness in his own eyes. And Stacey recognized his kindness, the sweetness of nature that lay beneath Mr. Carroll’s set firmness,—recognized all his father’s virtues, more clearly and justly than ever before. But it was as though he were recognizing the virtues of a convincing figure in a two-dimensioned movie play. The world of men had become a world of shadows to Stacey.
Catherine alone he felt as a real person—no doubt because she was suffering the same sorrow as he. He spent all the time with her that she would permit, and while the funeral service was being held in the sitting-room of the little house he sat with her and Carter upstairs in Phil’s old room. They were both silent, save when they spoke comfortingly to the frightened weeping boy. They could hear the grave accents of the clergyman’s voice downstairs.
“What are you going to do, Catherine?” he asked her one morning two or three days later. “Shall you go back to New York—to your sister’s?”
She shook her head. “No, I’ll stay here for now, I think,” she replied. “The house rent is paid for a long time ahead, and I don’t want to take the boys out of school.”
“Do you need money? You must tell me if you do.”
“No—thanks,” she answered simply. “I have plenty for now, and”—her eyes drooped wearily—“Phil carried—quite heavy insurance. Your father, too, asked me that,” she added. “He’s been awfully good.”
“He would be,” said Stacey drearily.
Catherine considered him sadly. “Stacey,” she said, “you look dreadfully ill.”
“I feel a bit fagged,” he admitted. “I’ve been thinking that towards spring I might go down to father’s place in North Carolina.”
“Oh,” she exclaimed, “yes! But why not go now?”