“And you will come in? Larry loves company.”
“Not to-night, Mary-Clare, but to-morrow. I am going to stay at the inn for a few days.”
“Oh! I am glad!” Almost the brave voice broke.
“There is something else I see, my dear,” Northrup ignored the poor disguise for a moment. “I see the meaning of you as I never saw it before. You have never broken faith! That is above all else––it is all else.”
“I have tried.” Upon the clasped hands tears fell, but Northrup caught the note of joy in her grieving voice.
“You have carried on what your doctor entrusted to you.”
“Oh! thank you, bless you for saying that.”
“Good-night.” Northrup released the cold hands––they clung for a moment in a weak, human way. “There is to-morrow, you know,” he whispered.
Alone, a little later, on the road, Northrup experienced that strange feeling of having left something back there in the yellow house.
He heard the water lapping the edge of the road where the sumach grew; the bell, with its new tone, sounded clearly the vesper hour; and on ahead the lights of the inn twinkled.