The Doctor.
Yes, and the next day as well. (To the Old Woman) You too ought to be in bed. Every one ought to be in bed at this time of night. Is that my way out—through that door there? I so often make mistakes!
[Exit with the Old Woman.
The Man.
(Taking up the sketch-plan from his Worktable.) Look at this, my wife. It is something which I had begun upon just before our boy's accident happened. I remember stopping in the middle of that line and thinking, "I will take a little rest now, and continue it later." See how simple and easy that line was to draw! Yet how strange to look upon it and think, "Perhaps this may prove to have been the last line which I drew while our boy was yet alive!" With what an unconscious air of ill-omen do its very straightness and simplicity seem charged!
His Wife.
Nay; do not fret yourself, my darling, but chase away these despondent thoughts from you.
I feel sure now that the doctor spoke truth—that our boy, will recover.
The Man.
Ah, but are not you fretting a little, my dear one? Look at yourself in the mirror, and you will see that your face is as white as your hair, my poor old comrade.