"It is true," he remarked, "I shall be better for having something to eat, I am quite upset by the journey."
And Uncle Henry went puffing up the steps and grasped the door-knob.
Good Heavens!--did his eyes not deceive him? There sat Linden, his arm in a sling, and beside him--surely he knew that thick brown knot of hair and that slender figure which was bending, down to cut up his meat. Now she raises her head and kisses him on the forehead before she quietly resumes her own place.
"Angels and ministers of grace defend us! A man has only to take a journey--!"
Uncle Henry drops the door-knob. He has such a queer sensation--he does not like emotion--and he does not like to disturb other people. He would gladly get out of the way if he could--perhaps he may manage it yet.
But no. Gertrude herself opens the door.
"Uncle Henry," she said, pleadingly.
And he comes in and behaves exactly as if nothing had ever happened. It is the purest selfishness on his part. Scenes don't agree with him.
"I wanted just to see how you were--you seem to have had a nice little fire," he begins.
"Thank God! No lives were lost," said Linden, "and no cattle were burnt; the crops are all destroyed, it is true; but in place of that a new life has risen out of the ashes." And he held out his sound hand to Gertrude.