But Karl did not seem to be enjoying it as much as usual to-day. "I'm going to desert you," he said, after a little while.
"Lazy man!"
"Yes—lazy good for nothing man—leaves all the work for his wife."
She looked at him sharply. His voice sounded very tired. "I'll be in in just a few minutes, dear," she said.
She did not go with him. She knew Karl liked to find his own way just as much as he could. She understood far too well to do any unnecessary "helping."
But she stood there and looked after him—watched him with deep pain in her eyes. He stooped a little, and of course he walked slowly, and uncertainly. All that happy spring and assurance had gone from his walk.
She walked down to the rear of the yard, stood there leaning against the back fence. She had dropped more than one tear over that back fence.
She too had lost something during the summer. Struggle had sapped up some of the wine of youth. Her face was thinner, but that was not the vital difference. The real change lay in the determination with which she had learned to set her jaw, the defiance with which she held her head, and the wistfulness, the pleading, with which her eyes seemed to be looking out into the future. The combination of things about her was a strange one.
She looked to the west; the sun was low, the clouds very beautiful. For the minute she seemed to relax:—beauty always rested her. And then, with a sharp closing of her eyes, a bitter little shake of her head, she turned away. She could not look at beautiful things now without the consciousness that Karl could not see them.
They always sat together in the library that hour before dinner—"our hour" they had come to call it. She wondered, with a hot rush of tears, if they did not care for it because it marked the close of another day. She turned to the house, kicking the newly cut grass with her foot, walking slowly. She was waiting for something—fighting for it. Karl needed her to-night, needed courage and cheer.