Did God make him of the same blood as the vicious,
cringing wretch crouching to hide his black face at the other
side of the bed? Some such thought came into Lois's brain, and
vexed her, bringing the tears to her eyes: he was her father, you
know. She drew their hands together, as if she would have joined
them, then stopped, closing her eyes wearily.
"It's all wrong," she muttered,--"oh, it's far wrong! Ther' 's
One could make them 'like. Not me."
She stroked her father's hand once, and then let it go. There
was a long silence. Holmes glanced out, and saw the sun was
down.
"Lois," he said, "I want you to wish me a happy Christmas, as
people do."
Holmes had a curious vein of superstition: he knew no lips so
pure as this girl's, and he wanted them to wish him good-luck
that night. She did it, looking up laughing and growing red:
riddles of life did not trouble her childish fancy long. And so
he left her, with a dull feeling, as I said before, that it was
good to say a prayer before the battle came on. For men who
believed in prayers: for him, it was the same thing to make one
day for Lois happier.
CHAPTER X.
It was later than Holmes thought: a gray, cold evening. The
streets in that suburb were lonely: he went down them, the
new-fallen snow dulling his step. It had covered the peaked
roofs of the houses too, and they stood in listening rows, white
and still. Here and there a pale flicker from the gas-lamps
struggled with the ashy twilight.
Pages:
161
162
163
164
165
166
167
168
169
170
171
172
173
174
175
176
177
178
179
180
181
182
183
184
185