The blood on his handkerchief told its own story.
She straightened the room, drew a screen between him and the fire,
and then went to the bed, where he had already fallen into a deep
sleep. Sinking on her knees beside him, she broke into heavy, silent
sobs. The one grief of her girlhood had been the waywardness of her
only brother. From childhood she had stood between him and blame,
shielding him, helping him, loving him. She had fought valiantly
against his weakness, but her meager strength had been pitted against
the accumulated intemperance of generations.
She chafed his thin wrists, which her fingers could span; she tenderly
smoothed his face as it lay gray against the pillows; then she caught
up his hand and held it to her breast with a quick, motherly gesture.
"Take him soon, God!" she prayed. "He is too weak to try any more."
At midnight she slipped away to her own room and took off the dainty
gown she had put on for Sandy's coming.
For long hours she lay in her great canopied bed with wide-open eyes.
The night was a noisy one, for there was a continual passing on the
road, and occasional shouts came faintly to her.
With heavy heart she lay listening for some sound from Carter's room.
She was glad he was home.
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