And the universe had grown stark and hard, impersonal, relentless,
cold. A storm of doubts had attacked his faith. And though he had resisted
long, for his faith in God had been rooted deep in the mountains of New
England, in the end it had been wrenched away, and with it he had lost all
hope that either for Judith or himself was there any existence beyond the
grave. So death had come to Roger's soul. He had been deaf and blind to his
children. Nights by the thousand spent alone. Like a gray level road in his
memory now was the story of his family.
When had his spirit begun to awaken? He could not tell, it had been so
slow. His second daughter, Deborah, who had stayed at home with her father
when Laura had gone away to school, had done little things continually to
rouse his interest in life. Edith's winsome babies had attracted him when
they came to the house. Laura had returned from school, a joyous creature,
tall and slender, with snapping black eyes, and had soon made her presence
felt. One day in the early afternoon, as he entered the house there had
burst on his ears a perfect gale of laughter; and peering through the
portieres he had seen the dining-room full of young girls, a crew as wild
as Laura herself. Hastily he had retreated upstairs. But he had enjoyed
such glimpses. He had liked to see her fresh pretty gowns and to have her
come in and kiss him good-night.
Then had come a sharp heavy jolt.
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