But Lo-- Mas'r," he mumbled, servilely, "it's on'y a little time
t' th' end: let me stay with Lo. She loves me,--Lo does."
A look of disgust crept over Holmes's face.
"Stay, then," he muttered,--"I wash my hands of you, you old
scoundrel!"
He bent over Lois with his rare, pitiful smile.
"Have I his life in my hands? I put it into yours,--so, child!
Now put it all out of your head, and look up here to wish me
good-bye."
She looked up cheerfully, hardly conscious how deep the danger
had been; but the flush had gone from her face, leaving it sad
and still.
"I must go to keep Christmas, Lois," he said, playfully.
"Yoh're keepin' it here, Sir." She held her weak grip on his
hand still, with the vague outlook in her eyes that came there
sometimes.
"Was it fur me yoh done it?"
"Yes, for you."
"And fur Him that's comin', Sir?" smiling.
Holmes's face grew graver.
"No, Lois." She looked into his eyes bewildered. "For the poor
child that loved me" he said, half to himself, smoothing her
hair.
Perhaps in that day when the under-currents of the soul's life
will be bared, this man will know the subtile instincts that drew
him out of his self-reliance by the hand of the child that loved
him to the Love beyond, that was man and died for him, as well as
she. He did not see it now.
The clear evening light fell on Holmes, as he stood there looking
down at the dying little lamiter: a powerful figure, with a face
supreme, masterful, but tender: you will find no higher type of
manhood.
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