"Shall I light th' candle, Young VB?"
His voice was shrill, strained, vibrant with anxiety. But VB did not answer—merely lifted a hand to his hot head.
"VB, when you left last night th' candle dropped down into th' bottle an' went out. I didn't dare light a new one to-night—" His voice broke, and he paused a moment. "I didn't dare light it until I knowed. I've been settin' in th' dark here, thinkin' things—tryin' not to think dark things."
One hand went halfway to his mouth in fear as he waited for the other to answer. VB put a hand on Jed's shoulder, and the old man clamped his cold fingers over it desperately.
"Yes, Jed—light it," he said huskily. Then he raised his head and looked at the old man with a half smile. "Light it, Jed. Let it burn on and on, just for the sake of being bright. But we—we don't need it any more. Not for the old reason, Jed."
The cold hand twitched as it gripped the hot one.
"Not for the old reason, Jed," VB continued. "There's a bigger, better, truer light burning now. It won't slip into the bottle; it can't be blown out. It didn't waver when the true crisis came. It'll always burn; it won't slip down into the bottle. It's—it's the real thing."
He staggered forward, and Jed caught him, sobbing like a woman, a happy woman.
They had the whole story over then by the light of a fresh candle.
When Jed started forward with a cry at the recital of the shooting VB pushed him off.