Bassett stood at the foot of the stairs, looking up.

XXVI

To Elizabeth the first days of Dick’s absence were unbelievably dreary.  She seemed to live only from one visit of the postman to the next.  She felt sometimes that only part of her was at home in the Wheeler house, slept at night in her white bed, donned its black frocks and took them off, and made those sad daily pilgrimages to the cemetery above the town, where her mother tidied with tender hands the long narrow mound, so fearfully remindful of Jim’s tall slim body.

That part of her grieved sorely, and spent itself in small comforting actions and little caressing touches on bowed heads and grief-stooped shoulders.  It put away Jim’s clothing, and kept immaculate the room where now her mother spent most of her waking hours.  It sent her on her knees at night to pray for Jim’s happiness in some young-man heaven which would please him.  But the other part of her was not there at all.  It was off with Dick in some mysterious place of mountains and vast distance called Wyoming.

And because of this division in herself, because she felt that her loyalty to her people had wavered, because she knew that already she had forsaken her father and her mother and would follow her love through the rest of her life, she was touchingly anxious to comfort and to please them.

“She’s taking Dick’s absence very hard,” Mrs. Wheeler said one night, when she had kissed them and gone upstairs to bed.  “She worries me sometimes.”

Mr. Wheeler sighed.  Why was it that a man could not tell his children what he had learned,—­that nothing was so great as one expected; that love was worth living for, but not dying for.  The impatience of youth for life!  It had killed Jim.  It was hurting Nina.  It would all come, all come, in God’s good time.  The young did not live to-day, but always to-morrow.  There seemed no time to live to-day, for any one.  First one looked ahead and said, “I will be so happy.”  And before one knew it one was looking back and saying:  “I was so happy.”

“She’ll be all right,” he said aloud.

He got up and whistled for the dog.

“I’ll take him around the block before I lock up,” he said heavily.  He bent over and kissed his wife.  She was a sad figure to him in her black dress.  He did not say to her what he thought sometimes; that Jim had been saved a great deal.  That to live on, and to lose the things one loved, one by one, was harder than to go quickly, from a joyous youth.

He had not told her what he knew about Jim’s companion that night.  She would never have understood.  In her simple and child-like faith she knew that her boy sat that day among the blessed company of heaven.  He himself believed that Jim had gone forgiven into whatever lay behind the veil we call death, had gone shriven and clean before the Judge who knew the urge of youth and life.  He did not fear for Jim.  He only missed him.