"But say it—say it! It was your brother. If it had been mine, I could forgive you."
"Esmée, you don't see it as it is."
"I do see it; but, Jack, you said that I was not to open the door."
"Well, you didn't open it, did you? So it's all right. But there's a man out in the snow, somewhere, that I have got to find, if Tip can show me where he is. Come, Tip!"
"Oh, Jack! You will not go without"—Jack turned his back to the door, and held out his arms. Esmée cast herself into them, and he kissed her in bitter silence, and went out.
These two were seated together again by the fire in the same room. It was four o'clock in the morning, but as dark as midnight. The floor in spots was wet with melted snow. They spoke seldom, in low, tired voices; it was generally Esmée who spoke. They had not been weeping, but their faces were changed and grown old. Jack shivered, and kept feeding the fire. On the bed in the adjoining room, cold as the snow in a deserted nest, lay their first guest, whom no house fire would ever warm.
"I cannot believe it. I cannot take it in. Are you sure there is nothing more we could do that a doctor would do if we had one?"
"We have done everything. It was too late when I found him."
"How is it possible? I have heard of persons lost for days—and this was only such a few hours."