And to get the things that she wanted, she had given him that which had stolen away his brains, which might indeed have done more than that—­which might have killed his soul.

He had heard her come in, but he had simulated sleep.  She had seated herself by the little table, and had gone on with her book.  Between his half-closed eyes he had studied her—­seeing her with new eyes—­the hard line of her lips, the long white hands, the heaviness of her chin.

Then he had slept, and had waked to find the day nurse on duty.  He felt that he should be glad never to see Hilda again.  He dreaded the night when he must once more speak to her.

He was very tired sitting there in his chair.  The rug had slipped from his knees.  He tried to reach for it and failed.  But he did not want to call the day nurse.  He wanted some one with him who—­cared.  He raised his poor old eyes to the lady in the picture.  He was cold and tired.

He wished that Bronson would come back—­good old Bronson, to pull up the rug.  He wished that Derry might come.

A door below opened and shut.  Some one was ascending the stairs.  Some one who walked with a light step—­some one slim and youthful, in a white gown—!

“Edith—?”

But Edith’s hair had not been crinkled and copper-colored, and Edith would have come straight up to him; she would not have hesitated on the top step as if afraid to advance.

“Who are you?”

“Jean—­”

“Jean?”

“Derry’s wife.”

“Come here.”  He tried to reach out his hand to her, but could not.  His tongue felt thick—.

She knelt beside his chair.  Her head was bare.  She wore no wrap.  “We were married this morning.  And my own father has gone—­to France—­and I wanted a father—­”

“Did Derry tell you to come?”

“Bronson begged me.  He was at the wedding—­”

“Old Bronson?” He tried to smile, but the smile was twisted.

She was looking up at him fearfully, but her voice did not falter.  “I came to tell you that Derry loves you.  He doesn’t want your money, oh, you know that he doesn’t want it.  But he is going away to the—­war, and he may be killed, so many men are—­killed.  And he—­loves you—­”

“Where is he?”

“I wouldn’t let him come.  You see, you said things which were hard for him to forgive.  I was afraid you might say such things again.”

He knew that he would never say them.  “Tell him that—­I love him.”  He tried to sit up.  “Tell him that he is—­my son.”

He fell back.  He heard her quick cry, “Bronson—­”

Bronson came running up the stairs, and the nurse who had watched the scene dazedly from the threshold of the General’s room ran, too.

Weighted down by a sense of increasing numbness he lifted his agonized eyes to Jean.  “Stay with me—­stay—­”

Hilda, waked by the day nurse, raged.  “You should have called me at once when he left his room.  Why didn’t you call me?”