“I’m afraid to,” came the whisper.  But soon, as again the drug took hold, he mumbled in a drowsy tone, “Afraid to go to sleep in the dark....  Say, Allan—­get Deborah in here, will you—­just for a minute.  One thing more.”

When she came, he did not open his eyes.

“That you, Deborah?  Where’s your hand?...  Oh—­there it is.  Just one more point.  You—­you—­” Again his mind wandered, but with an effort he brought it back.  “You and Edith,” he said in a whisper.  “So—­so—­so different.  Not—­not like each other at all.  But you’ll stick together—­eh?  Always—­always.  Don’t let go—­I mean of my hand.”

“No, dear, no.”

And with her hand holding his, she sat for a long time perfectly still.  Then the baby was heard crying, and Deborah went to the nursery.

“Now, Edith, I’ll see to the children,” she said.  “Allan says you can go to Bruce if you like.”

Edith looked up at Deborah quickly, and as quickly turned away.  She went in to her husband.  And there, hour by hour through the night, while he lay inert with his hand in hers, little by little she understood.  But she asked no question of anyone.

At last Bruce stirred a little and began breathing deep and fast.

And so death came into the family.

CHAPTER XXI

Roger went through the next two days in a kind of a stupor.  He remembered holding Edith and feeling her shudder as though from a chill.  He remembered being stopped in the hall by George who had dressed himself with care in his first suit with long trousers.  “I just wanted you to remember,” the boy whispered solemnly, “that I’m nearly sixteen and I’ll be here.  He said to stand by her and I will.”  The rest of that ghastly time was a blank, punctuated by small quiet orders which Roger obeyed.  Thank God, Deborah was there, and she was attending to everything.

But when at last it was over, and Roger had spent the next day in his office, had found it impossible to work and so had gone home early, Deborah came to him in his room.

“Now we must have a talk,” she said.  “Allan has gone through Bruce’s affairs, and there are still debts to be settled, it seems.”

“How much do they come to, Deborah?”

“About five thousand dollars,” she said.  And for a moment neither spoke.  “I wish I could help you out,” she went on, “but I have nothing saved and neither has Allan.  We’ve both kept using our money downtown—­except just enough for the trip abroad—­and we’ll need almost all of that to settle for the funeral.”

“I can manage,” Roger said, and again there was a silence.

“Edith will have to come here to live,” Deborah said presently.  Her father’s heavy face grew stern.

“I’d thought of that,” he answered.  “But it will be hard on her, Deborah—­”

“I know it will—­but I don’t see anything else to be done.”  The deep quiet voice of his daughter grew sweet with pity as she spoke.  “At least we can try to make it a little easier for her.  You can take her up to the mountains and I can close her apartment.  But of course she won’t agree to it unless she knows how matters stand.”  Deborah waited a little.  “Don’t you think you’re the best one to tell her?”