His father was quick to read his distress, and a mournful compassion came into his face. The boy left his book and came to his father’s side. The man folded the frail and excitable form to his bosom.
“Patience, patience, agile spirit!” he exclaimed as he pressed his lips upon the gaunt cheek upon which lay the wound.
“I must understand all things, my father,” said the boy, who was composed a little by his father’s arms. “I—I must know something more about the drama, for I—I must understand it all.”
“It is that which we feel,” said his father. “It is sometimes in the air. If we listen we can hear it. I hear it now.”
The boy lifted his face with all his senses strung.
“I can only hear the ticking of the clock, my father, and the creaking of the fire.”
“There is something else.”
The boy walked to the shutters of the little room, pressed his ear against them, and listened with great intensity.
“There is only the gurgle of water,” he said, “and the little voice of the wind.”
“And,” said the man with faint eyes.