Babcock had wandered on, forgetting, for the moment, that it was his own case he was analyzing. Now of a sudden it recurred to him, cumulatively, crushingly and, as before, his head instinctively sought refuge.
“We can’t do anything but take our medicine, Mollie––just take our medicine.”
Patter, patter sounded the sleet against the window-panes, mingling with the roar of the wind in the chimney, with the short, quick breaths of the man. In silence he reached out, 244 took one of the girl’s hands captive, and held it against his cheek.
For a minute––five minutes––she did not stir, did not utter a sound; only the soft oval face tightened until its gentle outlines grew sharp, and the brown skin almost white.
All at once her lips compressed; she had reached a decision.
“Steve, sit up, please; I can talk to you better so.” Pityingly, protectingly, she placed an arm around him and drew him close; not as man to maid, but––ah, the pity of it!––as a feeble child to its mother.
“Listen to what I say. To-day is Thursday. Next Monday you are going West, as the doctor orders.”
“What––what did you say, Mollie?”
“Next Monday you go West.”
“You mean, after all, I’m to have a chance? I’m not going to die like––like a rat?”