"We have tried to do right—have loved him so," she faltered.
"Perhaps we have been too sure of ourselves, our traditions. Each generation has its own ideals. We're only stepping-stones, but we like to believe we're the—end-all!"
"That may be."
Then they sat with bowed heads in silence, until Ledyard spoke again.
"I'm going to retire, Helen. Without him, work would be—impossible. His empty place would be a silent condemnation, a constant reminder, of—mistakes."
"If he leaves me, I shall close this house. I could not live—without him here. I never envied his mother before. I have pitied, condoned her, but to-night I envy her from my soul!"
"Helen"—and here Ledyard got up and walked the length of the room restlessly; he was about to put his last hope to the test—"Helen, this world is—too new for us; for you and me. We belong back where the light is not so strong and things go slower! We get—blinded and breathless and confused. I have nothing left, nor have you. Will you come with me to that crack in the Alps, as Dick used to call it, and let me—love you?"
"Oh! John Ledyard! What a man you are!"
"Exactly! What a man I am! A poor, rough fool, always loving what was best; never daring to risk anything for it. I'm tired to death——"
She was beside him, kneeling, with her snow-touched head upon his knee.