"Mary," he said, in a whisper, "forgive me; I brought it on you—my poor Mary!" Then he stood up and looked at his son in suffering silence. "I don't blame you," he said, simply.
At that, suddenly, John Smith broke. The pain of it all had begun to penetrate his passionate loyalty. For a moment there was silence, except for Mary's sobs. Then Johnny said, hoarsely, "Mr. Robertson, I'm—sorry. But . . . there isn't anything to do about it. I—I guess I'll go home."
"John," said Doctor Lavendar, "your aunt Lydia would want you to be kind."
Carl Robertson shook his head. "We don't want kindness, Doctor Lavendar. I guess we don't want anything he can give. Good-by, boy," he said.
His son, passing him, caught at his hand and wrung it. "Goo'-by," he said, roughly. There were tears in his eyes.
Then, without a look at his mother, he walked quickly down the room, and out into the hall. They could hear him putting on his hat and coat. . . . Carl Robertson pressed his clenched hand against his lips, and turned his back to the other two. Mary was silent. Doctor Lavendar covered his eyes for a moment; then, just as Johnny's hand was on the knob of the front door he called out:
"John, wait a minute, will you? Give me an arm; I'm going to walk home."
The young man, out in the hall, frowned, and set his jaw.
"All right," he called back, briefly. There was no detaining word or cry from the library while Doctor Lavendar shuffled silently into his coat,—and a minute later the door of the new Mr. Smith's house closed upon his grandson and the old minister.
It had begun to rain again, and the driveway was very dark—darker even than on that September night when Johnny's mother had cringed back from Miss Lydia's little leading hand and they had hurried along under the big trees. It was her son who hurried now. . . .