“But John––listen to me––”
He waved her off. “I listened to you the day Henry came home, Mirabelle. That’s enough to last me quite some time. I ain’t forgot a word you said––not a word. Where’s my hat?” He rushed past her, and out of the house, and left her gaping after him.
Half an hour later, young Mr. Standish telephoned to her.
“Miss Starkweather?... Your brother isn’t feeling any too well, and I’ve just sent him home. He looks to me as if he’s in pretty bad shape. Wouldn’t be a bad idea to have your doctor there, seems to me.”
She had the doctor there, and before the night was over, there was another doctor in consultation. There were also two nurses. And to both doctors, both nurses and Mirabelle, Mr. Starkweather, who knew his destiny, whispered the same message at intervals of fifteen minutes. “Don’t have Henry come back––don’t have 47 Henry come back––no sense his comin’ back ’till August. Tell him I said so. Tell him I want him to stay over there––’till August.”
And then, in the cool, fresh morning, Mr. Starkweather, who hadn’t stirred a muscle for several hours, suddenly tried to sit up.
“Postman!” said Mr. Starkweather, with much difficulty.
He was waiting for a letter from Henry, and when they put it into his hands, he smiled and was content. He hadn’t the strength to open it, and he wouldn’t let anyone else touch it; he was satisfied to know that Henry had written. And after that, there was nothing worth waiting for.