As Sylvia looked at her blankly, she went on:  “Somehow Lawrence must be taken away for a while—­until Father’s—­either you or I must go with him and stay, and the other one be here with Father until he’s—­he’s more like himself.”

Sylvia, fresh from the desolation of solitude in sorrow, cried out:  “Oh, Judith, how can you!  Now’s the time for us all to stay together!  Why should we—?”

Judith went to the door and closed it before answering, a precaution so extraordinary in that house of frank openness that Sylvia was struck into silence by it.  Standing by the door, Judith said in a low tone, “You didn’t notice—­anything—­about Father?”

“Oh yes, he looks ill.  He is so pale—­he frightened me!”

Judith looked down at the floor and was silent a moment.  Sylvia’s heart began to beat fast with a new foreboding.  “Why, what is the matter with—­” she began.

Judith covered her face with her hands.  “I don’t know what to do!” she said despairingly.

No phrase coming from Judith could have struck a more piercing alarm into her sister’s heart.  She ran to Judith, pulled her hands down, and looked into her face anxiously.  “What do you mean, Judy—­what do you mean?”

“Why—­it’s five days now since Mother died, three days since the funeral—­and Father has hardly eaten a mouthful—­and I don’t think he’s slept at all.  I know he hasn’t taken his clothes off.  And—­and—­” she drew Sylvia again to the bed, and sat down beside her, “he says such things ... the night after Mother died Lawrence had cried so I was afraid he would be sick, and I got him to bed and gave him some hot milk,”—­the thought flashed from one to the other almost palpably, “That is what Mother would have done”—­“and he went to sleep—­he was perfectly worn out.  I went downstairs to find Father.  It was after midnight.  He was walking around the house into one room after another and out on the porch and even out in the garden, as fast as he could walk.  He looked so—­” She shuddered.  “I went up to him and said, ‘Father, Father, what are you doing?’ He never stopped walking an instant, but he said, as though I was a total stranger and we were in a railway station or somewhere like that, ’I am looking for my wife.  I expect to come across her any moment, but I can’t seem to remember the exact place I was to meet her.  She must be somewhere about, and I suppose—­’ and then, Sylvia, before I could help it, he opened the door to Mother’s room quick—­and the men were there, and the coffin—­” She stopped short, pressing her hand tightly over her mouth to stop its quivering.  Sylvia gazed at her in horrified silence.

After a pause, Judith went on:  “He turned around and ran as fast as he could up the stairs to his study and locked the door.  He locked me out—­the night after Mother died.  I called and called to him—­he didn’t answer.  I was afraid to call very loud for fear of waking Lawrence.  I’ve had to think of Lawrence too.”  She stopped again to draw a long breath.  She stopped and suddenly reached out imploring hands to hold fast to Sylvia.  “I’m so glad you have come!” she murmured.