"He should have looked."
In her anger she ceased her sibilant whispering, and stood erect.
"I told him you'd be hard," she said. "He's outside, half-sick with
fright, because he is afraid. Afraid of you," she added, and went out,
her silks rustling in the quiet corridor.
She had gone away soon after that, the nurse informed him. And toward
dawn Clayton left Audrey in the sick room and found Graham. He was
asleep in a chair in the waiting-room, and looked boyish and very tired.
Clayton's heart contracted.
He went back to his vigil, and let Graham sleep on.
Some time later he roused from a doze in his chair. Graham was across
the bed from him, looking down. Audrey was gone. And the injured boy
stirred and opened his eyes.
"H-hello, Joey," said Graham, with a catch in his voice.
Joey lay still, his eyes taking in his new surroundings. Then he put out
a hand and touched the bandage on his head.
"What I got on?" he demanded, faintly.
Graham caught his father's eyes across the bed, and smiled a shaky,
tremulous smile.
"I guess he's all right, Father," he said. And suddenly crumpled up
beside the bed, and fell into a paroxysm of silent sobbing. With his arm
around the boy's shoulders, Clayton felt in that gray dawn the greatest
thankfulness of his life. Joey would live. That cup was taken from his
boy's lips. And he and Graham were together again, close together.
The boy's grip on his hand was tight. Please God, they would always be
together from now on.