“Oh, forgive, forgive me! I’ll be brave again, I will indeed. But I’ve been through so much lately that just now—it gets so hard—so hard”—her voice was almost inaudible—“harder and harder. I’ve been praying—and praying.”
“Annie, dear, you’re all wrong. I’m not going to-morrow or Tuesday either. Can’t you guess?”
She lifted her head from his shoulder and pushed him from her. “How queer you act! What do you mean?”
He tried to bend a jovial gaze upon her.
“I’m not going to travel any more, Annie, ever. You were all wrong; I’ve taken the offer. I went to see Mrs. Brenner’s brother in town. I tell you that little woman in Wisconsin did you a mighty good turn! And I’ve taken the chances. I’ve figured it all out.” He tried to gather her to him, but she drew back. “Why, Annie, aren’t you glad? What makes you shake so?”
“You are going to stay now?”
“Yes, always. I’m going to look after my children and my—sweet—wife. Why Annie! Oh, you poor, poor girl, has it been as bad as that?”
He tried once more to draw her to him, but she eluded his grasp and was gone. He heard her light footfall above and then there was only silence.
He sat there by the table for a few minutes with a book before him, as he smoked, but he did not read. Once he went to the door and called “Annie!” softly, that little Margaret might not be wakened, and yet again, “Annie! Come down; I want to read to you,” but there was no response.