A very small incident of the day kept creeping into his thoughts—young Carver! Had not his Winifred kissed her dainty hand as she held it out to him? Was it just a girlish impulse?—or was it the blood of youth responding to the call? Once planted, this tiny seed of uncertainty began to grow. The clock struck one—brooding time, for middle-aged men who roll and toss, and think dark things in the black hours of the night.
"It's only natural that youth responds to youth," said he to himself—"but I too am young in years, although my crowded life has made me old and out of tune with youth itself. I wonder if I have been fair to this child?" he mumbled impatiently. "I wonder, I——"
Then, suddenly, his mind relaxed, and over he went—"to the land of nod and dream."
On the following day Winifred spent the entire morning in her father's room. He was ill at heart and in body. The events of the day before, coupled with those of the ten days preceding had worn him down to a frazzle of his old self. He longed for the peace and quiet of his own home. He missed his old acquaintances with whom he exchanged salutations each day from the standpoint of the weather—"fine day,"—"looks like some sorter change"—"it's about time for the rains to set it," and the like.
The good man was lonesome in the big Villard home, and added to that, a deep cold had settled on his chest and continuous coughing had exhausted his powers of combativeness. But at last he was asleep, coaxed by the soft hands of his daughter who gently smoothed his forehead and face, and combed his hair and scalp, all of which induced new circulation—and finally, a most welcome drowsiness, which terminated in peaceful slumber.
Tired almost to the point of exhaustion, Winifred sought the quiet of her cosy portico, on the second floor, overlooking the west garden, and there in a huge lounging chair sat Drury Villard, his eyes shut tight, and fast asleep.
She gazed upon his kindly face, and then, with the joy of youthful spirits, she put her hands over his eyes. Then in a voice deep as she could command she whispered into his ear.
"Who dares to break the stillness of my solitude when I am sleeping over a dull magazine article about the future prospects of rubber"—and that was as far as she got.
The big man reached out and closed his giant hand over her soft, dainty wrists, and drew her to a place beside him—tired little girl that she was. And there she sat and closed her eyes while he stroked her hair and whispered endearing words into a small pink ear—and told her a tale about "The Old Man of the Sea," who—"whistled up the winds, and called for Davy Crockett, and together watched the fury of the waves."