"Some day, I suppose. I'm not worrying about it. It was something to do; it kept me from—thinking."
The girl looked at him and something gripped her throat. He knew! Rose might have gone down with her father, but Jerry knew! Nothing was any use. She knew his rigid morality, his country-bred horror of the thing she was. She would have to go back—to Rose and the others. He would never take her home.
Down at the medicine closet the Probationer was carbolising thermometers and humming a little song. Everything was well. The Avenue Girl was with her people and at seven o'clock the Probationer was going to the roof—to meet some one who was sincerely repentant and very meek.
In the convalescent ward next door they were singing softly—one of those spontaneous outbursts that have their origin in the hearts of people and a melody all their own:
'Way down upon de S'wanee Ribber,
Far, far away,
Dere's wha my heart is turnin' ebber—
Dere's wha de old folks stay.
It penetrated back of the screen, where the girl lay in white wretchedness—and where Jerry, with death in his eyes, sat rigid in his chair.
"Jerry?"
"Yes."
"I—I guess I've been pretty far away."
"Don't tell me about it!" A cry, this.