"If only the rest of them knew what they are missing! Hey, Willem?" assented Peter Grimm.
"What is Dr. McPherson looking at there on the sofa?" demanded Willem. "He seems scared—and—and—unhappy. What is he looking at, Mynheer Grimm?"
"He is looking at—nothing. And he doesn't know it. Come!"
"It's—it's so wonderful to be alive!" cried Willem.
They passed out, and the door of the house closed noiselessly behind them.
CHAPTER XXIII
THE DAWNING
Night had given place to red dawn, and red dawn to white day.
Dr. McPherson came out of the Grimm house and sat down on the edge of the vine-bordered stoop. He was very tired. He had had a hard and trying night. In his ears were still ringing the sobs of old Marta, hastily awakened to learn of her only grandson's death;—Kathrien's quiet grief;—Mrs. Batholommey's excited, high-pitched questionings that jangled on the death hush as horribly as breaks the Venus music through the Pilgrims' Chorus.