"Sleep better!" he said. "That's a queer notion. You've got queer fancies, you women—some on you."
Then he stooped and kissed her awkwardly. He always did it with more or less awkwardness and lack of ease, but it never failed to make her happy.
"Now you've done it," he said. "You'd better go, old lady, and leave me to finish what I've got to do."
"It's late for work, Jem," she answered. "You oughtn't to try yourself so much."
"It ain't work so much," he said, "as thinking. There's summat I've got to think out."
For the moment he seemed quite to forget her. He stood with his hands thrust into his pockets and his feet apart, staring at the carpet. He did not stir when she moved away, and was still standing so when she turned at the door to look at him.
What she saw brought her back, hurried and tearful.
"Let me stay!" she cried. "Let me stay. There's trouble in your face, Jem, for I see it. Don't keep it from me—for the sake of what we've been through together in times that's past."
He bestirred himself and looked up at her.
"Trouble!" he repeated. "That's not the word. It's not trouble, old lady, and it's naught that can be helped. There's me and it to fight it out. Go and get your sleep and leave us to it."
She went slowly and sadly. She always obeyed him, whatever his wish might be.
When the last sound of her faltering feet had died away upon the stairs, he went to the side-board and poured out a glass of raw brandy and drank it.
"I want summat to steady me," he said,—"and to warm me"
