When young Randall opened his eyes again, he found himself back in
his room at the Pages’. He lay still for a moment, remembering. The
window was open, and the dark blue silk curtains fluttered, giving a
glimpse of darkness outside. The room was filled with a mild, quiet
light, however, and he felt sure that some one was there. He could
not turn; his shoulder was stiff and painful, and a mortal weariness
weighed him down. He tried to speak, and could not. All that he
could manage was to draw one hand across the cover a little way.
But it was enough. Geraldine saw it. She came and stood beside him,
grave and lovely as ever, so untroubled, so quiet.
“Everything’s all right,” she said gently. “The doctor’s seen you.
You’re very weak, but he says you’ll soon—”
She stopped, because it was so hard to see him there, white and
still, with that mute appeal in his eyes.
“You’re getting on nicely!” she said, with a sudden brisk
cheerfulness.
Then he managed to speak.
“No!” he said, in that old defiant way of his.
That was more than Geraldine could bear. She knelt down beside him
and laid her hand over his. She did not know how to say the words he
wanted to hear. She could only look and look at him, with tears in
her eyes and a little anxious, trembling smile on her lips.
Again he tried to speak, but only one word came:
“Love!” he said faintly.
(The end.)
[Transcriber’s Note: This story appeared in the January 1926 issue of
Munsey’s Magazine.]