“Yes, dear,” his aunt said promptly, alert, business-like, Martha ready and practical again under the stimulant of something definite to do, some tangible service to render, some woman’s help to contribute.
“Go quickly, won’t you?” But he need not have said it, for already she was hurrying from the room, and only half pausing to say, “Yes, at once. You will come back, Hugh—you are sure to come back?”
“Yes,” he said confidently, “don’t worry, I’ll come back.”
“I’ll get them all in the kitchen and lock the door,” she said grimly, and went.
Hugh nodded and he smiled until the door closed. Then he turned sadly to Helen.
“Well, dear, I’d better go now.” She could not speak, but she nodded—as bravely as she could. “Yes—keep up your courage, dear,” he told her; “everything will turn out all right.”
But at that she broke down and threw her arms about him convulsively.
“I can’t let you go, Hugh, I can’t let you go.”
“I must go, dear, you know I must.” He kissed her—just once, and put her from him, and went resolutely to the door. But in the doorway Dr. Latham met him, and pushed him back into the room.
“I have bad news, Hugh,” the physician said.