“But he expected Joe to-day! That would leave him to wait.”
“Isn’t that better?” he asked.
“Ah,” she exclaimed, “the blind wait so hard. There is nothing else for them.”
“But they suffer hard, too. While waiting he could at least—hope.”
She shook her head quickly.
“He would guess.”
“A guess is never a certainty,” he persisted.
“It would be certainty enough to break down his poor heart. Dr. Merriweather said that Joe alone could keep him with us another week.”
Barnes glanced again at the brick house. It scarcely seemed possible that so grim a crisis as this could center there. The situation struck home. In some way he felt the responsibility of this unknown young man’s action resting upon his own shoulders. He, too, in a fit of anger had left a father behind him.
At that moment Barnes was inspired by an idea—a preposterous idea to be sure, but the present situation was preposterous and so was Barnes himself if his father was to be believed. Furthermore most inspired ideas are preposterous. It depends a good deal on how they turn out whether or not that adjective clings to them forever. But this one made even Barnes catch his breath. He had to look again at the blue sky, at the gold in her hair, at her eyes now misted like Loch Lomond at dawn.