“Oh, I know it—but I can’t.”
“You may never see my father again.”
“Don’t say that! He’ll get well, honey; you mustn’t think anything else. Oh, it’s too bad! it’s just too bad!”
He felt lonely and afraid of what was ahead of him. He was afraid of his father’s death, and of a funeral. He was terrified at the thought of his mother’s woe. He could feel her clutching at him helplessly, frantically, and telling him that he was all she had left. His eyes filled with tears at the vision and they blinded him to everything but the vision. He put his hands out through the mist and caught Sheila’s arms and pleaded:
“You ought to come with me, now of all times.”
She could only repeat and repeat: “I know it, but I can’t, I can’t. You see that I can’t, don’t you, honey?”
His voice was harsh when he answered: “No, I don’t see why you can’t. Your place is there.”
She cast her eyes up and beat her palms together hopelessly over the complete misunderstanding that thwarted the union of their souls. She took his hands again and squeezed them passionately.
Reben came upon them, swinging his cane. Seeing the two holding hands, he essayed a frivolity. “Honeymoon not on the wane yet?”
Sheila told him the truth. He was all sympathy at once. His race made him especially tender to filial love, and his grief brought tears to his eyes. He crushed Bret’s hands in his own and poured out sorrow like an ointment. His deep voice trembled with fellowship: