her eyes on
the window. November! Acorns and the leaves--the nice, damp, earthy
smell! Acorns all over the grass. She used to drive the old retriever
in harness on the lawn covered with acorns and the dead leaves, and the
wind still blowing them off the trees--in her brown velvet--that was a
ducky dress! Who was it had called her once "a wise little owl," in that
dress? And, suddenly, her heart sank. The pain was coming again.
Winton's voice from the door said:

"Well, my pet?"

"It was only to see how you are. I'm all right. What sort of a day is
it? You'll go riding, won't you? Give my love to the horses. Good-bye,
Dad; just for now."

Her forehead was wet to his lips.

Outside, in the passage, her smile, like something actual on the air,
preceded him--the smile that had just lasted out. But when he was back
in the study, he suffered--suffered! Why could he not have that pain to
bear instead?

The crunch of the brougham brought his ceaseless march over the carpet to
an end. He went out into the hall and looked into the doctor's face--he
had forgotten that this old fellow knew nothing of his special reason for
deadly fear. Then he turned back into his study. The wild south wind
brought wet drift-leaves whirling against the panes. It was here that he
had stood looking out into the dark, when Fiorsen came down to ask for
Gyp a year ago. Why had he not bundled the fellow out neck and crop, and
taken her away?--India, Japan--anywhere would have done! She had not
loved that fiddler, never really loved him. Monstrous--monstrous! The
full bitterness of having missed right action swept over Winton, and he
positively groaned aloud. He moved from the window and went over to the
bookcase; there in one row were the few books he ever read, and he took
one out. "Life of General Lee." He put it back and took another, a
novel of Whyte Melville's: "Good for Nothing." Sad book--sad ending! The
book dropped from his hand and fell with a flump on the floor. In a sort
of icy discovery, he had seen his life as it would be if for a second
time he had to bear such loss. She must not--could not die! If she
did--then, for him--! In old times they buried a man with his horse and
his dog, as if at the end of a good run. There was always that! The
extremity of this thought brought relief. He sat down, and, for a long
time, stayed staring into the fire in a sort of coma. Then his feverish
fears began again.