“Won’t you let me carry it up for you?”
“Thank you, it isn’t necessary. I’ll go along, if you’ll wait and turn out the light.”
“Very well. You’re sure it’s not too heavy for you?” he asked anxiously, as her wrists bent a little with the weight.
“Oh, no, indeed,” said Dosia quickly, turning to go. At that moment the white cat, jumping down from the table in front of her, rubbed itself against her skirts, and she stumbled slightly.
“Take care!” cried Girard, grasping the shaking pitcher over her slight hold of it.
Their hands touched—for the first time since the night of disaster, the night of her trust and his protection. The next instant there was a crash—the fragments of the jug lay upon the kitchen floor, the water streaming over it in rivulets.
“Dosia!” called the frightened voice of Lois from above.
“Yes, I’m coming,” Dosia called back. “There’s nothing the matter!” She had run from the room without looking up at that figure beside her, snatching a glass of water automatically from the dining-table as she passed by it. Fast as her feet might carry her, they could not keep pace with her beating heart.
When the telephone-bell rang a moment after, it was to confirm the tidings given before. Justin was in Chicago.