Stephen's negative sounded drowsy. But he was not drowsy. There was an amazing fact to which he must give his mind and he wished to be alone. He saw his father lying with half-closed eyes upon his pillow; he saw that he himself lay fever-flushed with a swollen, bandaged, torturing object by his side, and that he had come to the same dark brink. His father had stepped out bravely; he did not believe that he should go bravely. His father had had a hope, but he had no hope. When his father had recited the creed, he had spoken with conviction; but he had no convictions.
He believed suddenly that even to say the words would help if he could remember them. Childishly pleased, he recited, "Credo in Deum Patrem omnipotentem," in a tone which brought Miss Knowlton to his side.
"Did you speak to me?" She began to open the bandage.
"I was only trying to remember some old Latin."
Miss Knowlton remembered afterward that as Stephen said this and as she saw his wrist, purple above the bandage, the market-wagons had begun to rumble past and dawn was in the sky.
"I'm going for hot water," she said soothingly as one speaks to a sick man.
Outside the door she found Miss MacVane, pale and shocked, her hand lifted to rap.
"There was a call on the telephone from the Sanatorium," she said in an awed tone, her eyes blinking behind her thick glasses. "I don't know what to do about it."
"Anything the matter?"
"Mrs. Lanfair is dead," said Miss MacVane. "They say 'suddenly,' that is all."