“I feel like a new man,” Stanchfield declared in a little while. “Now I must go. I can’t be here at daybreak.”
He started to his feet, but was still so weak that in spite of his determination he fell back into his chair.
“The truth is,” Miss Imogene remarked with a wrinkled brow, “you must have rest to recuperate. But what to do with you, my boy, I don’t know.”
“In a little I shall be myself again,” Stanchfield insisted. “At the worst I can get back on the roof and wait till my strength returns. Whatever happens I cannot involve you ladies in my troubles.”
“My dear boy,” Miss Imogene spoke softly, “I knew your father so well that anything I might do for you would but repay in a slight measure much that I owe him. There must be some way found to start you out again with a chance of escape.”
She spoke so earnestly that it would have seemed rudeness to protest further. Stanchfield bowed his head as if in assent to her assumption of the responsibility.
“Is your father still alive?” Miss Imogene asked after a moment’s silence.
“He was, the last time I heard of him,” Stanchfield answered. “He is a Major in our army now, you know.”
“I didn’t know,” Miss Imogene said, looking down into the fire with a return of her old manner. “I didn’t know. I haven’t heard of him for many years, but some day I might meet him. Could I face him, knowing that I might have helped his son and did not try? No, no. For the sake of a dear friendship I am doubly bound.” She paused and then, lifting her head with a determined air, spoke directly to Dorothea.
“May I share your room to-night, honey?”