"You must leave that to me," he said gently, giving his kindly smile. "I cannot share this burden with you. So long have I borne it that it has become sacred to me. It means only making the story a little longer, a little stronger. Some day he will have to know—some day; but not now! not now!"
Just then a distant church bell struck the midnight hour. Solemnly, insistently, the twelve strokes rose and fell.
"The wind has passed," whispered Boswell.
"Yes, and the fire is dead. You are very, very tired, I am sure," Priscilla murmured.
Something new and maternal had entered into her thought and voice. While life lasted she was always to see in the crippled man a brave and patient soul who played with sternest problems because he had no other toys with which to while away his dreary years; no other offerings for them he loved.
"Yes. The play is over for—to-night. The Property Man can take his rest until—to-morrow. Turn on the lights, Priscilla Glenn. You and I must find our way out of the darkness."
"Let me help you, Mr. Boswell."
"Help me? That sounds very kind. I will make believe that I am ninety! Yes, you may help me. Thank you! And now good night. You need not write of—Joan Moss to Farwell. I am grateful because you understand and appreciate my—my attempt. I can bring the tale to a close in great style. I was a bit discouraged, but it seems clear and convincing now. That is often the way in my trade of story-maker. We come against a blank wall, only to find there a gateway that opens to our touch."