Part 25

Lilly was pinning on her hat in an agony of haste.

"I left the note on the pincushion. If he goes in the kitchen for his milk first, like he does on hot nights, maybe I can beat him! He may be—"

Her voice trailed down the hall. She fumbled a little at the street door, hot flushes darting over her body.

In the street-car Lilly dug her nails through the silk palms of her gloves and sat on the edge of the seat, her pulse pounding in her ear. Her voiceless prayer beat against her brain. She did not see or think beyond the possibility of reaching their bedroom before her husband.

Charley was due home now—as she was lumbering across town in a lethargic street-car. Her whole destiny hung on the frail thread of possibility—the possibility that her husband would follow his wont of warm nights and browse round the kitchen larder before entering their room. She drew in a suffocating breath at the thought of Charley's wrath—she had once seen him on the verge of anger.

To reach home and the note first! That hope beat against her temples; it flooded her face with color; it turned her cold and clammy. She left the car a corner too soon and ran the block, thinking to gain time over the jogging street-car; it passed her midblock, and she sobbed in her throat.

She turned the corner sharply. From the street she could see the yellow glow of gas coming from a side-window of her apartment; the light must come from one of two rooms—her sick senses could not determine which.

"Oh-oh-oh-oh-oh-oh!" her breath came in long, inarticulate wheezes. "Oh-oh-oh-oh-oh!" A policeman eyed her suspiciously and struck the asphalt with his stick. She turned into the embrace of the apartment house and ran up the three flights of stairs with limbs that trembled under her; her cold fingers groped about before she could muster strength to turn the key in the lock.

Lilly entered noiselessly. The bedroom was dark. Tears sprang to her eyes. For a moment she reeled; then she felt along the parlor wall to the middle room. By the shaft of light from the kitchen she could see the yellow note undisturbed, poised like a conspicuous butterfly. Her hand closed over it—she crushed it in her palm.

"Charley!" she called, and entered the kitchen.

Her husband was standing by the window—his face the white of cold ashes. He looked up at her like a man coming out of a dream.

"Charley," she cried, "I was afraid you'd get worried. I went over to Loo's, and we stayed up and talked so late—I didn't know—"

She stopped at the sight of his face; her fear returned.

"Charley, you—you—"

He regarded her, with the life coming back into his eyes and warming his face.

"It's this heat; this pesky old heat almost got me!"

"My poor, sweet boy!" she said, with a sob of relief. "My poor, sweet boy!"

He caressed her weakly, like a man whose strength has been drained from him.

"You ain't mad at me because I kicked up at supper, are you, Charley? You know I don't mean what I say when I'm out of sorts—you know there ain't nobody like my boy!"

He kissed her.

"No; I ain't sore, honey."

"Here's your milk in the ice-box. You must have just got in before me. An' let me fix you a sardine sandwich, lovey."

"I—I ain't hungry, Lil. I—I can't eat nothin'—honest."

"I want you to, Charley—you've had a hard day."

"Yes, a hard day!" he repeated, smiling.

She prepared him a sandwich. At the sink her foot struck a small, square package bearing a jeweler's stamp. It might have dropped there from nerveless fingers or been wilfully hurled.

She picked it up wonderingly. It was neatly tied with blue cord.

"What's this?"

Her husband started.

"That? Oh, that's the little surprise I was tellin' you 'bout. I started to fix it fer to-morrow; but—but—" His voice died in his throat.

She opened it with trembling fingers.

"It's the silver bracelet!" she cried. "It's the silver bracelet!"

The unshed tears sprang to her eyes.

"Oh, Charley dear, you ain't—you ain't—" The tears came like an avalanche down an incline and choked off her speech.

He folded her to him.

"No, dear; I ain't!" he soothed.

THE END