"Is he asleep?" wondered Dave. He stepped to the bed.
"Yes, he must be asleep. Shall I speak to him?"
He hesitated. He wanted to wake him and make sure that an ugly suspicion was without foundation.
He watched the old man's breast, and saw a movement there as of a pulsation of the heart. He held his hand before the keeper's mouth.
"Yes, I feel his warm breath. It must be sleep, and yet--"
He paused. He did not like to express in language what he could not help in thought.
"I will not disturb him," he finally said, "for it may be only just sleep. I will wait, any way, till after dinner."
Deferring and still suspecting, he went downstairs. The kitchen had not changed, and yet it seemed a different place. The clock and the fire now made discordant noises. The sunshine that fell through the window and rested on the floor seemed not so much to bring the light as to show how empty and comfortless the place was. He felt lonelier than ever, this man that people outside suspected of theft, who was cut off from the sympathy of the man suspected with him. He was like one of the ledges in the sea, so isolated, so much by itself, upon which the waves beat without mercy, without rest. In that hour what society, sympathy, strength, he found in the psalms!--a face to smile upon him, a voice to cheer, and a hand to uplift.
XVI.
THE STORM STRIKING.