“He’s reading, and I thought I wouldn’t disturb him.”
“Where’s that magazine I had? There you go again! Why don’t you let the children wait on you?”
“I knew just where it was,” said the wife with eager excuse.
“Well, it’s their business to know where things are,” said Prescott severely; “they don’t help you half enough. When I go away to-morrow——”
The joy in his wife’s face went out as the light is snuffed out in a candle.
That evening, as they sat alone together in the cozy library after the children were in bed, she broke into the conversation with a tone that showed the effort. “I haven’t asked you yet what time you want breakfast to-morrow morning. I hope you don’t have to take the six-fifty, it’s so very dark and early, and you never really eat anything, no matter what I get for you.”
Prescott looked at the pure outline of her cheek and brow, and the stricken cheerfulness of her eyes. He hardly seemed to hear her words for a minute, and then answered absently:
“No; I’m not going so early to-morrow. Hark, is that somebody coming up our steps?”
“Oh, I hope it’s no one to call! It would be dreadful when it’s our last evening together. No, thank goodness! It’s next door.”
“When I’ve been home five whole days that you didn’t count on, you oughtn’t to stand out for such a little thing as the last evening. It was well I could come—wasn’t it? When I got that telegram——”