but I reckon, after all, you hadn't really done that. I
see--I understand. You have been all these years holding her in your
heart, somehow, as yours in spirit if not in body, and now for the
first time you are trying to look the facts in the face. I've noticed
that you don't sleep sound. I hear you stirring about in the night."

John made no denial, and the fact that he did not do so proved to
Cavanaugh that what he had said was true.

John rose and started to his own room. "I'll have you up in time for
your train," he said. "Get a good sleep. You will need it before
starting on a long journey like yours. Good night."

"Good night, my boy, good night," Cavanaugh said.

From his own room, where John sat smoking in the dark, he saw the light
go out in Cavanaugh's room. He listened, expecting to hear the bed creak
as it always did when the old man got upon it, but now there was no
sound. There was silence for nearly half an hour, and then the telltale
creaking came. John understood. Had he had a watch and a light, he
could, to a second, have timed one of the saddest and most unselfish of
prayers.

"Poor, dear old Sam!" he muttered, and began to undress for bed.

CHAPTER V

After Cavanaugh's departure the time hung heavy over John. He seldom
heard from Dora, and, as business happened to be rather quiet, he really
was too inactive for one of his introspective temperament. When not at
work he spent the time altogether in the company of Binks, who seemed to
have become actually human in his fidelity and affection.

One day, having to inspect a finished building on Washington Heights,
not far from Dyckman Street, he took the dog along. And when the work
was over he and Binks strolled down to the Hudson and walked along the
shore. It was a warm day, and men, women, and children were fishing and
bathing in the clear water.

Presently a spot was reached that looked inviting, and John decided to
eat the lunch there that he had brought along. So, seating himself on a
water-worn boulder, he opened his parcel and fed Binks as he himself
ate.

Across the river in a bluish haze towered the Palisades, and on either
side of him in the distance jutted out from the shore he was on long,
slender, gray and yellow boat-houses with their pile-anchored floats. On
his right at the water's edge was a group of Italians, picnicking
together. There were the four heads of two families, stocky
laboring-men, fat housewives, and youn