“It is just above there—­on the third floor,” she said, threading her way with a large determined ease through the children playing upon the sidewalk.

When he mounted presently the dimly lighted staircase inside, it seemed to Adams that the whole house, close, poorly-lighted, dust laden as it was, was filled to the echo with the ceaseless voices of children—­laughing voices, crying voices, scolding voices, voices lifted as high in joy as in grief.  So strong was his impression of the number of the little inmates that he was almost surprised when the woman pushed open a door on the third landing and led the way into a room which appeared deserted except for the occupant of the clean white bed by the window.

The whole place was scrupulously neat, he saw this at the first glance—­saw the well swept floor, the orderly arrangement of the chairs, the spotless white cambric curtains parted above the window sill, on which a red geranium bore a single blossom out of season.  Several large gray cats arose at the woman’s entrance and came crying to the kittens in the basket; and she motioned to Adams to put the little creatures on the floor.  Then going to the bed she stooped over the man who lay there—­outstretched and perfectly motionless as if wrapped in a profound and quiet slumber.  One iron-stained misshapened hand lay on the outside of the coverlet and as Adams looked at it, he saw in it a symbol of the whole tragedy upon which he gazed.  The face of the sleeper was hidden from him, but so expressive was the distorted, toil-hardened hand, with the fingers fallen a little open as if in relief from a recently dropped tool, that the voice of the woman sounding in his ears merely put into words his own unspoken knowledge.

“Ah, he’s gone,” she said.  “He promised me he’d hold out if he could, but I guess he couldn’t manage it.”

Then standing there in the bare, cleanly swept room, bright with the voices of children which floated in from the staircase, Adams was conscious, with a consciousness more vital and penetrating than he had ever felt before, that the place, the universe and his own soul were filled to overflowing with the infinite presence of God.

CHAPTER XI

ON THE WINGS OF LIFE

It was on the morning after Gerty’s conversation with Adams that Laura carried the news of her engagement to Uncle Percival.

“I’ve something really interesting for you this morning,” she began, taking his withered little hand in hers as she sat down on the high footstool before his chair.

His wandering blue eyes fixed her for a moment, then, turning restlessly, travelled to his flute which lay silent on the table on his elbow.

“Ah, but I’m ahead of you for once,” he remarked with his amiable toothless smile, “there’s a new batch of rabbits in the yard and I’ve already seen ’em.  Don’t tell Rosa, my dear,” he cautioned in a whisper, “or she’ll be sure to drown ’em everyone.”