This from Judith ran like a galvanic shock through Sylvia’s sorrow-sodden heart.  She sat up, aroused as she had never been before to a stern impulse to resist her emotion, to fight it down.  She clasped Judith’s hand hard, and felt the tears dry in her eyes.  Judith went on:  “If it hadn’t been for Lawrence—­he’s sick as it is.  I’ve kept him in his room—­twice when he’s been asleep I’ve managed to get Father to eat something and lie down—­there seem to be times when he’s so worn out that he doesn’t know what he’s doing.  But it comes back to him.  One night I had just persuaded him to lie down, when he sat up again with that dreadful face and said very loud:  ’Where is my wife?  Where is Barbara?’ That was on the night after the funeral.  And the next day he came to me, out in the garden, and said,—­he never seems to know who I am:  ’I don’t mind the separation from my wife, you understand—­it’s not that—­I’m not a child, I can endure that—­but I must know where she is.  I must know where she is!’ He said it over and over, until his voice got so loud he seemed to hear it himself and looked around—­and then he went back into the house and began walking all around, opening and shutting all the doors.  What I’m afraid of is his meeting Lawrence and saying something like that.  Lawrence would go crazy.  I thought, as soon as you came, you could take him away to the Helman farm—­the Helmans have been so good—­and Mrs. Helman offered to take Lawrence—­only he oughtn’t to be alone—­he needs one of us—­”

Judith was quiet now, and though very pale, spoke with her usual firmness.  Sylvia too felt herself iron under the pressure of her responsibilities.  She said:  “Yes, I see.  All right—­I’ll go,” and the two went together into Lawrence’s room.  He was lying on the bed, his face in the pillows.  At the sound of their steps he turned over and showed a pitiful white face.  He got up and moved uncertainly towards Sylvia, sinking into her arms and burying his face on her shoulder.

But a little later when their plan was told him, he turned to Judith with a cry:  “No, you go with me, Judy!  I want you!  You ’know’—­about it.”

Over his head the sisters looked at each other with questioning eyes; and Sylvia nodded her consent.  Lawrence had always belonged to Judith.

CHAPTER XLII

“Strange that we creatures of the petty ways, Poor prisoners behind these fleshly bars, Can sometimes think us thoughts with God ablaze, Touching the “fringes of the outer stars."”

And so they went away, Lawrence very white, stooping with the weight of his suitcase, his young eyes, blurred and red, turned upon Judith with an infinite confidence in her strength.  Judith herself was pale, but her eyes were dry and her lips firm in her grave, steadfast face, so like her mother’s, except for the absence of the glint of humor.  Sylvia kissed her good-bye, feeling almost a little fear of her resolute sister; but as she watched them go down the path, and noted the appealing drooping of the boy towards Judith, Sylvia was swept with a great wave of love and admiration—­and courage.