A few of his
followers--the close-in favorites--had called to see him, but had been
denied. His wife, flutteringly made excuses. He sat in his big black
leather chair, looking into the fireplace, where no fire was kindled,
and when one of the maids had come in to build the fire, he had gently
told her he liked it better as it was, dull, bleak and dead, it suited
the occasion--and she had gone out hurriedly, and in the kitchen burst
into tears.

"It ain't natural for him to be mild like that," she sobbed to the
cook. "I'd rather have him damn me up and down. The old man's heart is
broken, that's what it is. He's sittin' there so calm and quiet--it
would make any one cry that has known him in his good days. I don't
believe we'll ever hear him rip and tear again--the blessed old dear."

"Well indeed, I'll be glad if we don't," said the cook grimly. "He's
raised enough hell in his time for one man, if he never does another
turn at it. I've put up with him for over fifteen years. I saw him
drive out Master Jim, and Jim's poor wife, with the dearest little pet
of a grandson any man ever had. He was sorry enough after, but that
didn't bring them back. I hope he will sit still for a while and think
it all over, and give the poor missis a rest. She's been bawled at,
and sworn at enough too, and her that gentle and pleasant."

"She's cryin' in her room now," said the housemaid, dabbin' her
eyes with her handkerchief and wishin' he'd come up and rage over
anything."

"O, is she?" said the cook. "I'll bet she's not. The house is so quiet
it makes her nervous--that's all! But she'll get used to it. O no,
Rosie dear, he's got his, and it's about time. I ain't worryin' over
him, for all I like the old man--but I believe the day of judgment
begins here. He's reaping what he sowed--and all I wonder at is that
the harvest has been so late."

"That's all right for you--you're a Presbyterian," said Rosie
tearfully, "but I belong to the Army. You know God's side of it
bettern' I do, but we're all for the sinner, and I can't bear to see
him so quiet and mild. It's just like havin' a corpse in the house
to see him there in front of the dead fire; I wouldn't wonder if the
morning light will find him cold and stiff in death." Rosie's tears
gushed forth anew at this sad picture.

"No chance," said the cook, "I haven't cooked breakfast for him for
fifteen years without knowin' him better than that. He'll come back."

But the Presbyteria