"Why did I ever let him leave this house!"

"Don't begin that. You did the best you could To keep him--though perhaps you didn't quite Conceal a wish to see him show the s.p.u.n.k To disobey you. Much his wife'll thank you."

"Fred, after all I said! You shan't make out That it was any way but what it was.

Did she let on by any word she said She didn't thank me?"

"When I told her 'Gone,'

'Well then,' she said, and 'Well then'--like a threat.

And then her voice came sc.r.a.ping slow: 'Oh, you, Why did you let him go'?"

"Asked why we let him?

You let me there. I'll ask her why she let him.

She didn't dare to speak when he was here.

Their number's--twenty-one? The thing won't work.

Someone's receiver's down. The handle stumbles.

The stubborn thing, the way it jars your arm!

It's theirs. She's dropped it from her hand and gone."

"Try speaking. Say 'h.e.l.lo'!"

"h.e.l.lo. h.e.l.lo."

"What do you hear?"

"I hear an empty room-- You know--it sounds that way. And yes, I hear-- I think I hear a clock--and windows rattling.

No step though. If she's there she's sitting down."

"Shout, she may hear you."

"Shouting is no good."

"Keep speaking then."

"h.e.l.lo. h.e.l.lo. h.e.l.lo.

You don't suppose--? She wouldn't go out doors?"

"I'm half afraid that's just what she might do."

"And leave the children?"

"Wait and call again.

You can't hear whether she has left the door Wide open and the wind's blown out the lamp And the fire's died and the room's dark and cold?"

"One of two things, either she's gone to bed Or gone out doors."

"In which case both are lost.

Do you know what she's like? Have you ever met her?

It's strange she doesn't want to speak to us."

"Fred, see if you can hear what I hear. Come."

"A clock maybe."

"Don't you hear something else?"

"Not talking."

"No."

"Why, yes, I hear--what is it?"

"What do you say it is?"

"A baby's crying!

Frantic it sounds, though m.u.f.fled and far off."

"Its mother wouldn't let it cry like that, Not if she's there."

"What do you make of it?"

"There's only one thing possible to make, That is, a.s.suming--that she has gone out.

Of course she hasn't though." They both sat down Helpless. "There's nothing we can do till morning."

"Fred, I shan't let you think of going out."

"Hold on." The double bell began to chirp.

They started up. Fred took the telephone.

"h.e.l.lo, Meserve. You're there, then!--And your wife?

Good! Why I asked--she didn't seem to answer.

He says she went to let him in the barn.-- We're glad. Oh, say no more about it, man.

Drop in and see us when you're pa.s.sing."

"Well, She has him then, though what she wants him for I _don't_ see."

"Possibly not for herself.

Maybe she only wants him for the children."

"The whole to-do seems to have been for nothing.

What spoiled our night was to him just his fun.

What did he come in for?--To talk and visit?

Thought he'd just call to tell us it was snowing.

If he thinks he is going to make our house A halfway coffee house 'twixt town and nowhere----"

"I thought you'd feel you'd been too much concerned."

"You think you haven't been concerned yourself."

"If you mean he was inconsiderate To rout us out to think for him at midnight And then take our advice no more than nothing, Why, I agree with you. But let's forgive him.