As Hugh placed his hand on the door-knob of
No 19, he heard something that sounded suspi¬
ciously like a sob from across the hall. He paused
and listened. He was sure that he could hear
some one crying.
“Wonder what’s wrong,” he thought, instantly disturbed and sympathetic.
He crossed the hall and tapped lightly on Morse’s door. There was no answer; nor was there any when he tapped a second time. For a moment he was abashed, and then he pushed open the door and entered Morse’s room.
In the far corner Morse was sitting at his desk, his head buried in his arms, his shoulders shaking. He was crying fiercely, terribly; at times his whole body jerked in the violence of his sobbing.
Hugh stood by the door embarrassed and rather frightened. Morse’s grief brought a lump to his throat. He had never seen any one, cry like that before. Something had to be done. But what could he do ? He had no right to intrude on Morse, but he could n’t let the poor fellow go on suffering like that. As he stood there hesitant, shaken, Morse buried his head deeper in his arms, moaned convulsively, twisting and trembling after a series of sobs that seemed to tear themselves from him. That was too much for Hugh. He could n’t stand it. Some force outside of him sent him across the room to Morse. He put his
