One
after another the village physicians shook their heads--they could do
nothing. Skilled alienists from the city--they, too, could do nothing.
There was nothing that could be done, they said, except to care for him
as one would for a child. He would live years, probably. His
constitution was wonderfully good. He would not be violent--just foolish
and childish, with perhaps a growing irritability as the years passed
and his physical strength failed.
Mary and Edgar had come home at once. Mary had stayed two days and Edgar
five hours. They were shocked and dismayed at their father's condition.
So overwhelmed with grief were they, indeed, that they fled from the
room almost immediately upon seeing him, and Edgar took the first train
out of town.
Mary, shiveringly, crept from room to room, trying to find a place where
the cackling laugh and the fretful voice would not reach her. But the
old man, like a child with a new toy, was pleased at his daughter's
arrival, and followed her about the house with unfailing persistence.
"But, Mary, he won't hurt you. Why do you run?" remonstrated Jane.
Mary shuddered and covered her face with her hands.
"Jane, Jane, how can you take it so calmly!" she moaned. "How can you
bear it?"
There was a moment's pause.
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