Once more Edward Webb lay long awake, listening, as he knew the others did, for the noise of a hurried step outside. "Poor man! poor woman! poor boy!" he murmured, and then his thoughts hung hoveringly over the fact of his own parenthood. What had he done? Worse still, what had he left undone? The wind rose with a gathering swell of sound; rain fell and pattered on the window, pattering, pattering, until it seemed like voices. He fell asleep, but in a little while he wakened. Someone was moving about downstairs. Very quietly he went to the head of the stairs.
"Who's there?" he called.
Clara answered him. "It's only me."
"What are you doing?"
"Just making up the fire. It's such a stormy night—and cold."
The morning was very fair. The world had the washed look it needs in mid-July, and there were still raindrops sparkling in the sun.
"I think he'll come back to-day," Clara said to Alexander. "Will you take Mr. Webb for a walk—a long walk? You'd better not be here, either of you."
"You're not afraid?"
"Afraid! I'm only afraid when you're there, Alexander."