For Deborah, too, was a part of himself. He, too, had had his feeling for
humanity in the large. For years he had run a boys' club at a little
mission school in which his wife had been interested, and on Christmas Eve
he had formed the habit of gathering up a dozen small urchins right off the
street and taking them 'round and fitting them out with good warm winter
clothing, after which he had gone home to help Judith trim the Christmas
tree and fill their children's stockings. And later, when she had gone to
bed, invariably he had taken "The Christmas Carol" from its shelf and had
settled down with a glow of almost luxurious brotherhood. There was
sentiment in Roger Gale, and as he read of "Tiny Tim" his deepset eyes
would glisten with tears.
And now here was Deborah fulfilling a part of him in herself. "You will
live on in our children's lives." But this was going much too far! She was
letting herself be swallowed up completely by this work of hers! It was all
very well for the past ten years, but she was getting on in age! High time
to marry and settle down!
Again angrily he shook off the thought of that boy Joe alone in a cell,
eyes fixed in animal terror upon the steel door which would open so soon.
The day was slowly breaking. It was the early part of June. How fresh and
lovely it must be up there in the big mountains with Edith's happy little
lads. Here it was raw and garish, weird.
Pages:
80
81
82
83
84
85
86
87
88
89
90
91
92
93
94
95
96
97
98
99
100
101
102
103
104