The big head nodded almost imperceptibly. He moistened his lips.
"I'm all right," he said voicelessly. "Bad—bad cold!"
He shut his eyes, and with them shut, added in a whisper: "Sweet, sweet woman, Martie! Remember that day—in Pittsville—when you had on—your brother's—coat? Mabel—and old Jesse—!"
Heavenly tears rushed to her eyes; she felt the yielding of her frozen heart. She caught his hand to her lips, bowing her face over it.
"Ah, Wallace dear! We were happy then! We'll go back—back to that time—and we'll start fresh!"
A long silence. Then he opened his eyes, found her, with a start, as if he had not been quite sure what those opening eyes would see, and smiled sleepily.
"I'll make it—up to you, Martie!" he said heavily She had her arms about him as he sank into unnatural sleep. At eight, whispering in the kitchen with John, who had come for Teddy, she said that Wallie was better; and busy with coffee and toast for Miss Swann, she began to plan for Costa Rica. Beaten, crushed, purified by fire, healed by tears, she was ready for life again.
But that was not to be. Wallace was dead, and those who gathered about Martie wondered that she wept for her husband more than for her child.
Wept for the wasted life, perhaps, and for the needless suffering and sorrow. But even in the first hours of her widowhood Martie's heart knew a deep and passionate relief. Vague and menacing as was the future, stretching before her, she knew that she would never wish Wallace back.