That message he had thought to give!—and now—
Again the knock, timidly this time, fearing a too great persistency, but reluctant to go away. He would go in just a minute now. There would not come another knock. Well, let him go. When all the powers of fate had gathered round to mock and jeer was it too much to ask that there be no other spectators? Was not a man entitled to one hour alone among the ruins of his life?
He who would gain entrance was starting, very slowly, to walk away. He listened to him take a few steps, and then suddenly rose and hurried to the door. He was not used to turning away his students unanswered.
It was Beason who turned eagerly around at sound of the opening door.
Beason—of all people—that boy who never in the world would understand!
He was accustomed to reading faces quickly and even through his dark glasses his worried eyes read that Beason was in trouble, moved by something from the path in which he was wont to go.
"I'm sorry to interrupt you," stammered the boy, as he motioned him to a chair.
"Oh—that's all right; I wasn't doing anything, very important. Just—finishing up something," he added, glad, when he heard his own voice, that it was only Beason.
"I'm in trouble," blurted out Beason, "and I—I wanted to see you."
The man was sitting close to a table, and he rested his elbow upon it, and shaded his eyes with his hand.
"Trouble?" his voice was kind, though a little unsteady. "Why, what's the trouble?"