Trescott loudly stamped the snow from his feet and shook the flakes
from his shoulders. When he entered the house he went at once to the
dining-room, and then to the sitting-room. Jimmie was there, reading
painfully in a large book concerning giraffes and tigers and
crocodiles.
"Where is your mother, Jimmie?" asked Trescott.
"I don't know, pa," answered the boy. "I think she is up-stairs."
Trescott went to the foot of the stairs and called, but there came no
answer. Seeing that the door of the little drawing-room was open, he
entered. The room was bathed in the half-light that came from the four
dull panes of mica in the front of the great stove. As his eyes grew
used to the shadows he saw his wife curled in an arm-chair. He went to
her. "Why, Grace." he said, "didn't you hear me calling you?"
She made no answer, and as he bent over the chair he heard her trying
to smother a sob in the cushion.
"Grace!" he cried. "You're crying!"