98. But the days passed, and expectation gave place to resignation—the hopeless resignation of the old, sometimes miscalled, apathy. Sometimes they hardly exchanged a word, for now they had nothing to talk about, and their days were long to weariness.
99. It was about a week after that the old man, waking suddenly in the night, stretched out his hand and found himself alone. The room was in darkness, and the sound of subdued weeping came from the window. He raised himself in bed and listened.
100. “Come back,” he said, tenderly. “You will be cold.”
101. “It is colder for my son,” said the old woman, and wept afresh.
102. The sound of her sobs died away on his ears. The bed was warm, and his eyes heavy with sleep. He dozed fitfully, and then slept until a sudden wild cry from his wife awoke him with a start.
103. “The paw!” she cried wildly. “The monkey’s paw!”
104. He started up in alarm. “Where? Where is it? What’s the matter?”
105. She came stumbling across the room toward him. “I want it,” she said, quietly. “You’ve not destroyed it?”
106. “It’s in the parlour, on the bracket,” he replied marvelling. “Why?”
107. She cried and laughed together, and bending over, kissed his cheek.