"Well indeed, I'll be glad if we don't," said the cook grimly. "He's raised enough hell in his time for one man, if he never does another turn at it. I've put up with him for over fifteen years. I saw him drive out Master Jim, and Jim's poor wife, with the dearest little pet of a grandson any man ever had. He was sorry enough after, but that didn't bring them back. I hope he will sit still for a while and think it all over, and give the poor missis a rest. She's been bawled at, and sworn at enough too, and her that gentle and pleasant."
"She's cryin' in her room now," said the housemaid, dabbin' her eyes with her handkerchief and wishin' he'd come up and rage over anything."
"O, is she?" said the cook. "I'll bet she's not. The house is so quiet it makes her nervous—that's all! But she'll get used to it. O no, Rosie dear, he's got his, and it's about time. I ain't worryin' over him, for all I like the old man—but I believe the day of judgment begins here. He's reaping what he sowed—and all I wonder at is that the harvest has been so late."
"That's all right for you—you're a Presbyterian," said Rosie tearfully, "but I belong to the Army. You know God's side of it bettern' I do, but we're all for the sinner, and I can't bear to see him so quiet and mild. It's just like havin' a corpse in the house to see him there in front of the dead fire; I wouldn't wonder if the morning light will find him cold and stiff in death." Rosie's tears gushed forth anew at this sad picture.
"No chance," said the cook, "I haven't cooked breakfast for him for fifteen years without knowin' him better than that. He'll come back."
But the Presbyterian cook, so sure of her theology and her knowledge of human nature, had no breakfast to cook for him the next day, for the ex-Premier kept his bed, and declined to see any one except his wife, whom he did not let out of his sight. His gentleness was terrible—he was even pleasant. When Rosie brought the mail to the door, he actually thanked her, which brought on another paroxysm of tears, and made even the cook shake her head doubtfully.
He spoke little, and made no complaint. He was only tired, he said—just a little weary. No, he would not see a doctor—it was not a doctor he needed.
Beside him sat his wife, the quiet, self-effacing little woman who had had no thought or ambition apart from him. Under half closed eyes, he watched her, wonderingly. What were the thoughts of her heart—this gentle-faced woman who had so tenderly cared for him, and put up with him all these years. Many a time he had made her cry—he had driven away her son—and her grandson—and yet she had offered no word of remonstrance. How old and sad she looked when her face was in repose. It was a face of deep lines and great sadness—a wistful, troubled, hungry face, but dominated by a self-control of iron power. She sat beside the bed, without moving; waiting, watchful.
"You've been good to me, Jessie," he said at last, as he stroked her hand.
She started nervously.