“Lad!” she whispered in reply.
But Samuel’s eyes shrank when he saw the ambulance at the station, waiting. The doctor was going in it with Barbara. Oh! this cut, cut, as that knife would cut Barbara. Already they were being separated. They were taking her out of the train, away from him, and he was looking around the great station blindly, when he felt a strong grip on his arm and heard the word, “Father!” Nothing else seemed clear after that, and the way, the long way, rumbling through those streets, was like a narrow lane in the night. Barbara was in the streets, alone, without him, or she was already at that place where lay the one chance for him.
“There, father,” the lad was comforting him, “there’s no better place for her; you did just right.”
Samuel sobbed convulsively, tears rolling out of his eyes unnoticed, his hands clenching the chair.
“Father, father, don’t; we shall know soon.”
But the old face over which he leaned paid no heed to what was said; nor did Samuel hear the quick entrance into the room and the whispered words.
“Father, do you hear? Mother’s safe.”
Then Samuel rose to his feet, started forward, and swayed uncertainly. The lad took his arm.
“Father,” he said, “mother’s very weak, and we must be careful; we can see her only a minute, that is all, the doctor says.”
When they entered, Barbara lay on the bed, smiling. The nurse stepped outside; ah! she had seen so many, many moments like this, and yet her heart ached for the old man coming through the door, coming through to take into his arms the few precious years that were left.