University of Virginia Library

29. CHAPTER XXIX.
DEEPENING SHADOWS.

MR. WALTON received Hunting as he might
a son. Indeed, as such he looked upon the
young man, and the thought of leaving Annie to his
protection was an unspeakable comfort.

Altogether his reception reassured Hunting, and
proved that his relations were as yet undisturbed.
But in the depths of his soul he trembled at the
presence of Gregory in the house, and when Miss
Eulie came down and said, after an affectionate greeting,
that Gregory was in something like a stupor, he
was even base enough to wish he might never come
out of it.

But at the word “stupor,” Annie's face grew pale.
She had a growing dissatisfaction with Hunting's
manner in regard to Gregory, and felt that he did
not feel or show the interest or gratitude he ought.
But there was nothing tangible that she could tax
him with.

But the doctor, who came early in the evening,
reassured her, and said that the state of partial consciousness
was not necessarily a dangerous symptom,
as it might be merely the result of the severe shock.
The young man he brought was installed as nurse

under Miss Eulie's charge, and Annie said that Mr.
Hunting would also take his turn as watcher.

Then she, Mr. Hunting, and her father, had a
long talk over what had happened in his absence.
Mr. Walton dwelling most feelingly on what he
regarded the providential character of the visit from
the son of his old friend.

“If he never leaves our house alive, I have a
strong assurance that he will join his father in the
better home. Indeed, I may soon be there with
them.”

“Please don't talk so, father,” pleaded Annie.

“Well, my child, perhaps it's best I should, and
prepare your minds for what may be near. It's a
great consolation to see Hunting again, and he will
help you bear whatever is God's will.”

“You can trust her to me,” said Hunting fervently.
“I have ample means to gratify her most
extravagant wish, and my love will shelter her and
think for her even as yours would. But I trust you
will soon share our home with us.”

“I expect to, my children, but it will be our
eternal home.”

Annie strove bravely to keep her tears back, for
her father's sake, but they would come.

“Annie,” said Hunting, “won't you please let
your father put this ring on your engagement finger?”
and he gave Mr. Walton a magnificent solitaire
diamond.

Mr. Walton took his daughter's hand, and looked
earnestly into her tearful, blushing face.

“Annie,” he said, in a grave, sweet tone, “I hope
for your sake that I may be wrong, but I have a
presentiment that my pilgrimage is nearly ended.
You have made its last stage very happy. A good
daughter makes a good wife, Mr. Hunting; and Annie
dear, I shall tell your mother that you supplied
her place, as far as a daughter could. It will add
greatly to my peace if I can leave you and my sister,
and the dear little ones, under the care of one so
competent to protect and provide for you all. Mr.
Hunting, do you feel that you can take them to your
home and heart, with my daughter?”

“Certainly,” said Hunting. “I had no other
thought; and Annie's will shall be supreme in her
future home.”

“But after all, the chief question is, does this
ring join your hearts. I'm sure I'm right in thinking
so, Annie?”

“Yes,” she said in a low tone.

Slowly with his feeble, trembling hands he put
the flashing gem on Annie's finger, and then placed
her hand in Hunting's, and looking solemnly to
heaven, said:

“May God bless this betrothal as your father
blesses it.”

Hunting stooped down and kissed her hand and
then her lips. With mingled truth and policy, he
said:

“This ceremony is more solemn and binding to
me than the one yet to come at the altar.”

Annie was happy in her engagement. It was

what she expected, and had been consummated in a
way that seemed peculiarly sweet and sacred; and
yet her thoughts, with a remorseful tinge, would keep
recurring to the man who even then might be dying
for her sake.

After they had sat a little while in silence, which
is often the best expression of deep feeling, she suddenly
said, with an involuntary sigh:

“Poor Mr. Gregory, I'm so sorry for him.”

Thus Hunting knew where her thoughts were,
and instantly the purpose formed itself in his mind
to induce her through her father to consent to an
immediate marriage. He saw more plainly than
Annie the great change in her father, and based his
hope on the fact that the parent might naturally
wish to give his child a legal protector before he
passed away.

Mr. Walton now showed such signs of weariness
that they left him in Miss Eulie's care, who seemed
to flit like a ministering spirit between the two
patients.

After the great excitement of the day, Annie, too,
was very weary, and soon the household sought such
rest as was possible with two of its inmates seemingly
very near the boundaries that separate the known
world from the unknown. Glimmering all night long,
like signals of distress at sea, the faint lights of the
watchers reminded late passers-by of the perilous
nature of earthly voyaging.

Annie had gone with Miss Eulie to take a parting
look at Gregory. She bent over him and said,

“Mr. Gregory,” but his spirit seemed to have sunk
into such far depths that even her voice could not
summon him.

“Oh, if he should die now!” she moaned shudderingly,
and on the night of her engagement sobbed
herself to sleep.

The next morning saw little change in the patients,
save that Mr. Walton was evidently weaker.
Miss Eulie said that Gregory had roused up during
the night and seemed perfectly conscious. He
had inquired after Mr. Walton and Annie, but toward
morning had fallen into his old lethargy.

After breakfast Annie took Hunting up to see
him, but was pained to see her lover's face darken
as he looked at the prostrate and unconscious man.
She could not understand it. He seemed to have
no wish to remain. She felt almost indignant, and
yet what could she say more than she had? Gregory's
condition, and the cause, should naturally plead
for him beyond all words.

Annie spent most of the day with her father, and
purposed watching him that night. The doctor
came and reported more favorably of Gregory, but
said that everything depended upon his being quiet.
Annie purposed that Hunting should commence the
duties of watcher as soon as possible. Therefore she
told her aunt to tell Gregory that Hunting had
arrived, as soon as she thought it would answer. In
the afternoon, Gregory seemed to come out of his
lethargy more decidedly than he had before, and

took some nourishment with decided relish. Then
he lay quietly looking at the fire.

“Do you feel better now?” Miss Eulie asked
gently.

“I'm sure I don't know,” he answered wearily.
“I have a numb, strange feeling.”

“Would you like to see Miss Walton?”

“No, not now; I am satisfied to know she is well.”

“She wished me to tell you that Mr. Hunting
had arrived.”

He turned away his face with a deep scowl, but
said nothing.

After some time she came to his side and said:
“Is there anything you would like?”

“Nothing,” he replied gently. “I appreciate
your great kindness.”

Miss Eulie sighed and left the room, feeling dimly
that there were internal injuries after all, but such
as were beyond the doctor's skill.

Annie echoed her sigh when she heard how he
received Miss Eulie's information. She determined
to prepare and take him his supper.

When she noiselessly entered, he was again looking
fixedly at the fire. But she had not advanced
far into the room before he recognized her step and
looked up quickly.

“See,” she said cheerily, coming to his side,
“I've prepared and brought you this supper with my
own hands, and shall expect in return that you compliment
it highly. Now, isn't it a good supper?”
she asked, holding it before him.

But his eyes fastened on the glittering and significant
ring, whose meaning he too well understood.
With an expression of intense pain he turned his face
to the wall without a word.

“Mr. Gregory,” pleaded Annie, “I never thought
you would turn away from me.”

“Not from you, not from you,” he said in a low
tone; “but I'm very weak, and the light of that diamond
is too strong for me yet.”

“Forgive me,” she said, in a tone of deep
reproach; “I did not think.”

“No, forgive me. Please leave me now, and
remember in charity how weak I am.”

She put the tray down and hastened from the
room. He ate no supper that night, neither did she.
Hunting watched her gloomily, with both fear and
jealousy at heart. But the latter was groundless, for
Annie's feeling was only that of profound sorrow for
something she could not help. But lack of strongly
manifested interest and sympathy for Gregory injured
him in her estimation; for woman-like she unconsciously
took the side of the one he wronged. She
could understand Gregory's enmity, but it seemed
to her that Hunting should be full of generous enthusiasm
for one who was suffering so much in her
behalf.

“Men are so strange,” she said, half vexedly;
“they fall in love without the slightest provocation,
and hate each other forever, when a woman would
have sharp words and be over with it. They never
do what you would naturally expect.”

During the day Hunting had found time to see
Jeff alone, but found him inclined to be sullen and
uncommunicative. Jeff had changed sides, and was
now an ardent adherent of Gregory's, who had given
him five dollars without imposing any conditions;
and then, what was of far greater import, had saved
the house and Annie's life, and according to Jeff's
simple views of equity, he ought to have both. And
yet a certain rude element of honesty made him
feel that he had made a bargain with Hunting,
and that he must fulfill his part and then would be
quits. But he was not disposed to do it with very
good grace. So when Hunting said:

“Well, Jeff, I suppose you've seen a good deal
since I was last here.”

“Yes, I'se seen a mighty lot,” said Jeff, sententiously.

“Well, Jeff, you remember our agreement.
What did you see? Only the truth now.”

“Sartin, sah, only de truf. I'se belong to de Walton
family, and youse doesn't get nothin' but de truf
from dem.”

“All right, Jeff; I'm glad your employers have
so good an influence on you. Well?”

“I'se seen Misser Gregory on de roof,” said Jeff,
drawing on his imagination, as he only heard about
that event through Zibbie's highly colored story,
“where some other folks wouldn't dar go, and now
I'se see dat house dar, which I wouldn't see dar,
wasn't it for Misser Gregory.”

“Well, well,” said Hunting impatiently, “I've
heard all about that. What else?”

“I'se seen Miss Annie roun' all day bloomin' and
sweet as a rose, and I'se seen how she might have
been a crushed white lily,” Jeff continued solemnly,
with a rhetorical wave of the hand.

There existed in Jeff the raw material of a colored
preacher, only it was very crude and undeveloped.
But upon any important occasion he always
grew rhetorical and figurative in his language.

“Come, come, Jeff, tell me something new.”

“Well,” said Jeff, “since I'se promised to tell
you, and since I'se spent de ten dollars, and hasn't
got it to give you back again, I'se seen Misser Gregory
las' Sunday evenin', a kneelin' afore Miss Annie as
if he was a sayin' his prayers to her, and I shouldn't
wonder if she heard 'em (with a chuckle); any how
she wasn't lofty and scornful, and Misser Gregory
he's looked kinder glorified ever since; afore that he
looked glum, and Miss Annie, she's been kinder
bendin' toward him since dat evenin', like a rose-bud
wid de dew on it.”

Hunting's face darkened with suppressed anger
and jealousy. After a moment he said:

“Is that all?”

“Dat's all.”

“Well, Jeff, here's ten dollars more, and look
sharper than ever now.”

“'Scuse me, Misser Hunting. We'se squar now.
I'se done what I agreed, and now I'se goin' out ob
de business.”

“Has Gregory engaged your services?” asked
Hunting quickly.

“No, sah, he hab not. I reckon Misser Gregory
tink he doesn't need any help.”

“Why won't you do as I wish then?”

“Well, Mr. Hunting, it kinder makes me feel bad
here,” said Jeff, rubbing his hand indefinitely over
several physical organs. “I don't jes' believe Miss
Annie would like it, and after seein' Mr. Gregory
under dat pesky ladder, I couldn't do nothin' dat
he wouldn't like. If it hadn't been for him I'd sorter
felt as if I'd killed Miss Annie by leavin' dat doggoned
ladder so straight up, and I nebber could hab gone
out in de dark agin all my life.”

“Why, you old black fool,” said Hunting irritably,
don't you know I'm going to marry Miss Annie?
You'd better keep on the right side of me.”

“Which is de right side?” Jeff could not forbear
saying, with a suppressed chuckle.

“Come sir, no impudence. You won't serve me
any more then?”

“Oh yes, Misser Hunting. I'se black yer boots,
make de fire, harness de hoss, do any thing dat won't
hurt in here,” with a gesture that seemed to indicate
the pit of his stomach. “Anything more, please
'scuse me.”

“You will not speak of what has passed between
us?”

“I'se given my word,” said Jeff, drawing himself
up, “de word ob one dat belongs to de Waltons.”

Hunting turned on his heel and strode away.

Annie had given one version to the scene on that
Sabbath evening, and Jeff had innocently given
another. Hunting was not loyal enough even to
such a woman as Annie to believe her implicity.
But it is the curse of conscious deceit to breed suspicion.
Only the true can have absolute faith in the
truth of others. Moreover, Hunting, in his hidden
selfishness and worldiness, could not understand
Annie's ardent and Christ-like effort to save a fellow-creature
from sin. Skilled in the subtle impulses
of the heart, he believed that Annie, unconsciously
even to herself, was drifting toward the man he hated
all the more because he had wronged him, and because
he now was under such great obligations to
him, while the danger of his presence made him
almost vindictive. Yet he realized the necessity of
disguising his feelings, for if Annie discovered them
he might well dread the consequences. But the
idea of watching alone with Gregory was revolting.
It suggested dark thoughts which he tried to put
from him in horror, for he was far from being a
hardened villain. He was only a man who had
gradually formed the habit of acting from expediency
and self-interest, instead of principle. But
such a rule of life often places us where expediency
and self-interest require deeds that are black with
sin.

But he was saved from the ordeal of spending
hours alone with a man who even in his helplessness
might injure him beyond remedy, for on the following
morning Annie again sought Gregory's room

bent on securing reconciliation at once. She felt
that she could endure this estrangement no longer.

The young man employed as watcher was out at
the time.

Gregory was gazing at the fire with the same
look of listless apathy. A deep flush overspread
his deathly pale face as she came and sat down beside
him, but he did not turn from her.

“Mr. Gregory,” she said very gently, “it seems
that I can do nothing but receive favors from you,
and I've come now to ask a great one.”

He suspected something concerning Hunting,
and his face darkened forbiddingly. Though Annie
noted this, she would not be denied.

“Do you think,” she said earnestly, that after
your sacrifice for me, I can ever cease to be your
friend in the truest and strongest sense?”

“Miss Walton,” he said calmly, “I've made no
sacrifice for you. The thought of that episode in
the orchard is my one comfort while lying here, and
will be through what is left of life. But please do
not speak of it, for it will become a pain to me if I
see the obligation is a burden to you.”

“It is not,” she said eagerly. “I'm glad to owe
my life to you. But do you think I can go on my
way and forget you?”

“It's the very best you can do, Miss Walton.”

“But I tell you it's impossible. Thank God, it's
not my nature to do it.”

He turned toward her with a wistful, searching
look.

“We must carry out our old agreement,” continued
Annie. “We must be close and lasting
friends. You should not blame me for an attachment
formed years ago.”

“I do not blame you.”

“Then you should not punish me so severely.
You first make your friendship needful to me, and
then deny it.”

“I am your friend, and more.”

“How can we enjoy a frank and happy friendship
through coming years, after—after—you feel
differently from what you do now, when you will
not even hear the name of him who will one day be
my second self?”

Again his face darkened; but she continued
rapidly, “Mr. Hunting is deeply grateful to you, and
would like to express his feelings in person. He
wishes to bury the past—”

“He will, with me, soon,” interrupted Gregory
gloomily.

“No; please do not speak that way,” she pleaded.
“He wishes to make what little return he can, and
offers to watch with you night and day.”

He turned upon her almost fiercely, and said:

“Are you too in league with my evil destiny, in
that you continually persecute me with that man?
Miss Walton, I half doubt whether you know what
love means, or you would not make such a proposition.
Let me at least die quietly. With the memory
of the past and the knowledge of the present, his
presence in my room would be death by torture.

Pardon me, but let us end this matter once for all.
We have both been unfortunate. You, in inspiring
a love that you cannot return—I, in permitting my
heart to go from me beyond recall, before learning
that my passion would be hopeless. I do not see
that either of us has been to blame—you certainly
not in the slightest degree.

“But, however vain, my love is an actual fact, and
I cannot act as if it were not. As well might a man
with a mortal wound smile and say it's but a scratch.
I cannot merely change my mind in view of expediency
and invest such feelings in another way. The
fact of my love is now a past disaster, and I must
bear the consequences with such fortitude as I can.
But what you ask would drive me mad. If I should
live, possibly in the future I might meet you often
without the torturing regret I now feel. But to
make a smiling member of Charles Hunting's friendly
circle would require on my part the baldest hypocrisy;
and I can't do it, and won't try. If
that man comes into my room, I will crawl out if
I can.”

He was trembling with excitement, his face flushed
and feverish, and his eyes unnaturally bright.

“And you banish me, too,” said Annie, hurt and
alarmed at the same time.

“Yes, yes, forgive me for saying so. Yes; till
I'm stronger. See how I've spoken to you. I've no
self-control.”

She was most reluctant to go, and stood a moment,

hesitatingly. Timidly she ventured to quote
the line:

“That's a comforting fact for those who are
going there,” he said coldly.

With a sudden burst of passionate grief she
stooped down and kissed his hand, then fled to her
own room, and cried as if her heart would break. It
seemed as if he were lost to her and heaven, and
yet he was capable of being so noble and good.

Miss Eulie entered Gregory's room soon after,
and was alarmed at his feverish and excited appearance,
and decided that Annie's visits must cease for
the present. But she took no apparent notice of his
disturbed condition, but immediately gave a remedy
to ward off fever, and a strong opiate, which, with
the reaction and his weakness, caused him to sink
back into something like his old lethargy.

Hunting had spent the morning with Mr. Walton,
preparing his mind for the plan of immediate marriage.
He found the failing man not averse to the
project, as his love sought to secure to Annie every
help and solace possible.

After Annie had removed from her face every
trace of her emotion possible, she came down and
took her place at her father's side, intending to leave
it only when compelled. Hunting knew of her mission
to Gregory, and looked at her inquiringly, but
she sadly shook her head. He tried to look hurt,
but succeeded in looking angry. He soon controlled

himself, however, though he noted with deep uneasiness
Annie's sad face and red eyes. Mr. Walton
fortunately was dozing and needed no explanations.

But that night he was much worse, and had some
very serious symptoms. Annie never left his side.
But toward morning he rallied and fell into a quiet
sleep. Then Annie took a little rest.

The next day she was told that there was a gentleman
in the parlor who wished to see her. The
stranger proved to be one of Gregory's partners,
Mr. Seymour, who courteously said:

“I should have been here before, but the senior
partner, Mr. Burnett, is unable to attend to business
at present, and I came away the first moment I could
leave. I felt sure also that everything would be
done that could be. I hope the injury is not so
serious as first supposed.”

“You may rest assured that we have tried to do
everything,” said Annie, gravely, “but Mr. Gregory
is in a very precarious condition. You would like to
see him, I suppose.”

“If I can with safety to him.”

“I think a brief interview may do him good.
He needs rallying.”

At that moment, Hunting, not knowing who was
was present, entered. Both gentlemen started, but
Mr. Seymour gave no other sign of recognition, nor
did Hunting, though he could not at first hide a certain
degree of nervous agitation.

Annie presented him. Mr. Seymour bowed
stifly, and said rather curtly:

“We have met before,” and then gave him no
further attention, but, continuing to address Annie,
said:

“I well understand that Mr. Gregory needs
rallying. That has been just his need for the last
few months, during which time his health has been
steadily failing. I was in hopes he would come
back—” and then he stopped, quite puzzled for a
moment by the sudden change in Annie's manner,
which had become freezingly cold toward him, while
there was a look of honest indignation upon her
face.

“Excuse me, sir,” she said briefly. “I will send
you my aunt, who will attend upon your wishes,” and
she left Mr. Seymour standing in the middle of the
floor both confused and annoyed; but he at once surmised
that it was on account of his manner toward
Hunting, who sat down with a paper on the farther
side of the room, as if he were alone.

But when, a moment later, Miss Eulie entered
with her placid, unruffled face, Mr. Seymour could
not be otherwise than perfectly polite, and after a
few words followed her to Gregory's room.

Annie at once came to Hunting and asked:

“Why did that man act so?”

“Why, don't you see?” answered he hastily.
“Mr. Seymour is Gregory's partner. They all have
the same reason for feeling hostile toward me,
though perhaps Gregory has special reasons,” he
added with a meaning look.

Annie blushed deeply at this allusion, but said

with emphasis, “No man shall treat you that way
in my presence and still receive courtesy from
me.”

But his jealous spirit had noticed her quick blush
more than her generous resentment of the insult she
supposed offered him. Therefore he said:

“Mr. Gregory would treat me worse if he got
a chance.”

“But his case is different from any one's else,”
she said, with another quick flush.

“Evidently so in your estimation.”

Then for the first time she noted his jealousy,
and it hurt her sorely. She took a step nearer and
looked very gravely into his face for a moment without
speaking, and then said, with that calmness
which is more effective than passion:

“Charles, take care. I'm one that will be trusted.
Though it seems a light matter to you that he has
saved my life, at perhaps the cost of his own, it does
not to me.”

The cool and usually cautious man had for once
lost his poise, and he said with sudden irritation:

“I hear that and nothing else. What else could
he have done? If you had staid at your father's
side you would have been safe. He took you out to
walk, and any man would have risked his life to
have brought you back safely.”

Then for the first time he saw in Annie a spirit
he could never control as he managed people in
Wall Street, for, with a sudden blaze in her eyes, she
said hotly:

“I do not reason thus coldly about those to
whom I owe so much,” and abruptly left him.

In bitterness of fear and self-reproach he at once
realized his blunder. He followed her, but she was
with her father, and he could not speak there. He
looked imploringly at her, but could not catch her
eye, for she was deeply incensed. Had she not heard
him she would not have believed that he could be so
ungenerous.

He wrote on a scrap of paper:

“Annie, forgive me. I humbly ask your pardon.
I'm not myself to-day, and that man's conduct, which
you so nobly resented in my behalf, vexed me to
that degree that I acted like a fool. I am not
worthy of you, but you will perceive that my folly
arises from my excess of love for you. I'm going for
a walk. Please greet me with pardon in your face
on my return.”

Impulsive, loving, warm-hearted Annie could not
resist such an appeal. She at once relented, and
commenced making a thousand better excuses for
her lover than he could for himself. But she had
taught him a lesson, and proved that she was not a
weak, willowy creature that would cling to him no
matter what he was or did. He saw that he must
seem to be worthy of her.

Gregory greeted his partner with a momentary
glow of gratitude that he had come so far to see
him, and commenced talking about his business.

“Not a word of that, old fellow,” said Mr. Seymour.
“Your business is to get well. It seems to

me that you have everything here for comfort—good
medical attendance, eh?”

“Yes; if anything, too much is done for me.”

“I don't understand just how it happened.”

Gregory told him briefly.

“By Jove, this Miss Walton ought to be very
grateful to you.”

“She is too grateful.”

“I don't know about that. I met that infernal
Hunting down stairs. Of course I couldn't treat him
with politeness, and do you know the little lady
spunked up about it to that degree that she almost
turned her back upon me and left the room.”

“Of course,” said Gregory coolly, shielding his
secret by a desperate effort; “they are engaged.”

“Oh, I understand now. Well, I rather like her
spirit. Does she know how accomplished her lover
is in Wall Street?”

“No. Hunting is a distant relative of the family.
They believe him to be a Christian gentleman, and
would not listen to a word against him.”

“But they ought to know. He lied like a
scoundrel to us, and in your trying to make up the
losses all summer, he has nearly been the death of
you. I wouldn't let my daughter marry him though
he had enough money to break the Street; and it
seems a pity that a fine girl, as this Miss Walton
seems, should throw herself away on him.”

“Well, Seymour, that's not our affair,” said
Gregory, pale and faint from his effort at self-control.
“They would listen to nothing.”

“Well, good-by, old fellow. I see it won't do to
talk with you any more. Get well as soon as you
can, for we want you wofully in town. Get well, and
carry off this Miss Walton yourself. It would be a
neat way of turning the tables on Hunting.”

“Don't set your heart on seeing me at the office
again,” said Gregory, feelingly. “I have a presentiment
that I won't pull through this, and I don't
much care. Give my kindest regards to Mr. Burnett,
and tell him I shall think of him to the last as
among my best friends.”

Seymour made a few hearty remonstrances against
such a state of mind, and took his departure with
many misgivings. Gregory relapsed into his old
dreary apathy. Life had so many certain ills that
upon the whole he felt he would rather die. But he
was too stunned and weak to think much at all, save
when Annie came to him. Her presence was always
life, but now it was a sharp revival of the consciousness
of his loss. Left to himself, his mind sank down
into a sort of painless lethargy, from which he did
not wish to be aroused.

Mr. Walton passed a quieter night, but was
clearly failing fast. He sent frequent messages of
love and sympathy to Gregory, but seemed to have
an abiding faith that all would be well with him in
the next life, if not in this. Annie had not the heart
to undeceive him. When he thought it a little
strange that Hunting was not with him, Annie explained
by saying that the doctor insisted on perfect
quiet of mind, and the presence of Hunting might

unpleasantly revive old memories, and so unduly
excite him.

After the physician saw his patients the following
morning, he looked grave and dissatisfied. Annie
followed him to the door, and said:

“Doctor, I don't like the expression of your
face.”

“Well, Miss Annie,” said the doctor discontentedly,
“I've a difficult task on my hands, in trying to
cure two patients that make no effort to live. Your
father seems homesick for heaven, and mere drugs
can't rouse Mr. Gregory out of his morbid, gloomy
apathy. I could get him ashore if he would strike
out for himself, but he just floats down stream like
driftwood. But really, I'm doing all that can be
done, I think.”

“I believe you are,” she said sadly. “Good by.”

“Oh, merciful God,” she exclaimed when alone.
“What shall I do—what shall I do to save him?
Father's going to heaven and mother. Where is he
going?”