When they had all gone Harrison Miller helped him up the stairs to where his tidy bed stood ready, and the nurse had placed his hot milk on a stand.  But Harrison did not go at once.

“What about word to Dick, David?” he inquired awkwardly, “I’ve called up Bassett, but he’s away.  And I don’t know that Dick ought to come back anyhow.  If the police are on the job at all they’ll be on the lookout now.  They’ll know he may try to come.”

David looked away.  Just how much he wanted Dick, to tide him over these bad hours, only David knew.  But he could not have him.  He stared at the glass of hot milk.

“I guess I can fight this out alone, Harrison,” he said.  “And Lucy will understand.”

He did not sleep much that night.  Once or twice he got up and tip-toed across the hall into Lucy’s room and looked at her.  She was as white as her pillow, and quite serene.  Her hands, always a little rough and twisted with service, were smooth and rested.

“You know why he can’t come, Lucy,” he said once.  “It doesn’t mean that he doesn’t care.  You have to remember that.”  His sublime faith that she heard and understood, not the Lucy on the bed but the Lucy who had not yet gone on to the blessed company of heaven, carried him back to his bed, comforted and reassured.

He was up and about his room early.  The odor of baking muffins and frying ham came up the stair-well, and the sound of Mike vigorously polishing the floor in the hall.  Mixed with the odor of cooking and of floor wax was the scent of flowers from Lucy’s room, and Mrs. Sayre’s machine stopped at the door while the chauffeur delivered a great mass of roses.

David went carefully down the stairs and into his office, and there, at his long deserted desk, commenced a letter to Dick.

He was sitting there when Dick came up the street...

The thought that he was going home had upheld Dick through the days that followed Bassett’s departure for the West.  He knew that it would be a fight, that not easily does a man step out of life and into it again, but after his days of inaction he stood ready to fight.  For David, for Lucy, and, if it was not too late, for Elizabeth.  When Bassett’s wire came from Norada, “All clear,” he set out for Haverly, more nearly happy than for months.  The very rhythm of the train sang:  “Going home; going home.”

At the Haverly station the agent stopped, stared at him and then nodded gravely.  There was something restrained in his greeting, like the voices in the old house the night before, and Dick felt a chill of apprehension.  He never thought of Lucy, but David...  The flowers and ribbon at the door were his first intimation, and still it was David he thought of.  He went cold and bitter, standing on the freshly washed pavement, staring at them.  It was all too late.  David!  David!

He went into the house slowly, and the heavy scent of flowers greeted him.  The hall was empty, and automatically he pushed open the door to David’s office and went in.  David was at the desk writing.  David was alive.  Thank God and thank God, David was alive.