"What's that?"
It was Mr. Rathbone who first found voice.
"To what a state have I come when in every woman's face, even in hers
who is dearest, I see expressions I no longer understand, and in every
child's voice catch the sound of Gwendolen's?"
"Harry's voice is not like Gwendolen's," came in desperate protest from
the ready widow. A daring assertion for her to make to him who had often
held this child in his arms for hours together. "You are not yourself,
Justin. I am sorry. I--I--" Almost she gave her promise, almost she
risked her future, possibly his, by saying, under the stress of her
fears, what her heart did not prompt her to, when--
A quick move on her part, a low cry on his, and he came rushing up the
steps.