Here's a Compelling Tale
CHAPTER ONE
OUT OF THE STORM
A SPLOTCH of yellow light fell from the oil lamp to the flushed face of the boy. He writhed on the creaking bed and moaned, while his features were distorted by the agony of fever. His eyes were fiercely closed. One shivering hand grasped the edge of the covers. And from his blistered lips came the harsh query:
"Where's Pop? Where is he?"
The sallow woman, sitting at the bedside, glanced around nervously. She hesitated; then her bony hand reached toward the boy's forehead and touched it with a soothing caress. She bent forward until her haggard face hung under the sickly light, until her thin, straggling hair dully reflected the yellow glow. Anguish lurked in her weary eyes as she gazed upon the boy, and she shook her head pityingly.
"Where's Pop?" he repeated, raising his voice.
His eyes opened and he stared at her, as though he dared the woman to answer. Desperately she tried to smile, but there was no mirth on the bony countenance.
"He'll be home soon, Gil. He'll come soon."
"Where is he? I want him!"
"In a few minutes—"
"I want him! Call him, Mom. Why don't you call him?"
Her tightly pressed lips forced back a sob, but she could not conceal the convulsive heave of her shoulders. Impulsively she rose, a tall, gaunt woman, as stiff and straight as a poplar. She turned away from the bed and moved off through the shadowy darkness of the room.
Her clothes, heavy and voluminous, hung about her with ungainly looseness; her hair was neglected, so that some of it strayed over her listless face. She brushed it away and went to the window.
Rain pattered against the pane. Through the blackness outside a steady wind sent its weird ululations.
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