Slowly and overpoweringly objects became plain in the somberness of his surroundings.
Margaret lay upon a couch in the center of the room. She might have been asleep.
At her side sat Franz, regardless of the stinging gusts of wind that came in between the shutters.
Philip stepped to the couch and looked down upon the beautiful face, then he moved back quietly, and would have quitted the room, but Franz detained him by saying: “Is it you, Perkins?”
“It is I,” Philip answered.
Franz arose instantly, putting out his hand, and Philip clasped it eagerly.
Without the wind sighed drearily. The sound was depressing.
The naked branches of a tree growing in a corner of the yard lashed the house incessantly. The single lamp burned with a flickering flame.
“What is it?” Franz questioned, for twice Philip had essayed to speak.
“I am so sorry, Franz. So sorry,” he cried in broken tones.