Girls are so--so
different from what they used to be."
"Yes," but a tone of doubt was in Ledyard's voice. Presently he said:
"Since Dick has left, or may leave, the profession, I suppose he'll take
to writing. He's always told me that when he could afford to, he'd like
to cut the traces and wollop the race with his pen. Many doctors would
like to do that. A gag and a chain and ball are not what they're cracked
up to be. The pen is mightier than the pill, sometimes, but it often
eliminates the butter from the bread."
Helen caught at the only part of this speech that she understood.
"There's the little income I'm living on," she said; "it's Dick's
father's. I wish--you'd let me give it to him--now. I am old-fashioned
enough to want to live on my husband's money."
"Exactly!" Ledyard drew her closer; "quite the proper feeling. It can be
easily arranged."
And while they sat in the gathering gloom, Travers was wending his way up
a village street, and wondering that he found things so little changed.
While his heart grew heavier, his steps hastened, and he felt like a
small boy again--a boy afraid of the dark, afraid of the mystery of
night--alone! The boy of the past had always known a heavy heart, too,
and that added reality to the touch.
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