ivined, with some surprising new power of
divination, that, for all his strong, capable dealing with actualities,
his magnetic drawing of men, for the inner conduct of his own life he
was shyly dependent on odd, deeply held theory--theory that he had
solitarily woven for himself. She felt impersonally sorry for him, as
for a boy who must be disappointed, though he was nothing to her.

Yet, as Dosia lay there in the dumb stretches of the night, her tired
eyes wide open, close to Redge's crib, with his little hot hand clinging
to hers, the mere fact of Girard's bodily presence in the house,
down-stairs, seemed something overpoweringly insistent; she couldn't get
away from it. It gave her, apparently, neither pleasure nor pain; it
called forth no conscious excitement as had been the case with
Lawson--unless this strange, rarefied sense was a higher excitement.
This consciousness of his presence was, tiresomely enough, something not
to be escaped from; it pulsed in every vein, keeping her awake. She
tried to lose it in the thought of Lois' great trouble, of this
weighting, pitiful mystery of Justin's absence--of what it meant to him
and to the household. She tried to lose it in the thought of Lawson,
with the prayer that always instinctively came at his name. Nothing
availed; through everything was that wearing, persistent consciousness
of Girard's bodily presence down-stairs. If it would only fade out, so
that she might sleep, she was so tired! The clock struck two. A voice
spoke from the other room, sending her to her feet instantly:

"Dosia?"

"Yes, Lois, dearest, I'm here."

"Has any word come from Justin?"

"No."

Lois shivered. "I think, when Redge wakes up next, you'd better give him
a drink of water; he sounds so hoarse. I've used all I brought up. Do
you mind going down to get some more? I would go myself, but I can't
slip my arm from under baby; he wakes when I move. Here is the pitcher."

"Yes," said Dosia, stopping for a moment to pull the coverlet tenderly
over Lois, before stepping out into the lighted hall.

It seemed very silent; there was no sound from below. Dosia went down
the low, wide stairs with that indescribable air of the watcher in the
night. Her white cotton gown, the same that she had worn throughout the
afternoon, had lost its freshness, and clung to her figure in twisted
folds; the waist was slightly open at the throat, and the long white
necktie hung half untied. One cheek was warm wh