“It is a fair picture to take with one,” he whispered.
“To keep with one,” softly trembled his wife’s voice; his eyes met hers in a commiserating smile.
Suddenly he started up.
“Ruth,” he gasped, “will you go to Louis? He must be worn out.”
She left the room hurriedly. Her faint knock was not immediately answered, and she called softly; receiving no reply, she turned the knob, which yielded to her hand. Sunbeams danced merrily about the room of the young man, who sat in their light in a dejected attitude. He evidently had made no change in his toilet; and as Ruth stood unnoticed beside him, her eyes wandered over his gray, unshaven face, travel-stained and weary to a degree. She laid her hand upon his shoulder.
“Louis,” she called gently.
He shook under her touch, but made no further sign that he knew of her presence.
“You must be so tired, Louis,” she continued sympathetically.
It may have been the words, it may have been the tone, it may have been that she touched some hidden thought, for suddenly, without premonition, his breast heaved, and he sobbed heavily as only a man can sob.
She started back in pain. That such emotion could so unstring Louis Arnold was a marvel. It did not last long; and as he rose from his chair he spoke in his accustomed, quiet tone.