"I will pay five dollars a week hereafter."
"That will stretch it out to twenty-eight weeks," he said, still
doubtfully.
"I can't help it; I must."
"Certainly," he said, "that will be all right," but looked puzzled.
That night she slept in the hall bedroom in the Eighth Avenue,
machine-stitched nightgown. She dropped off about midnight, praying not
to awaken at four. But she did--with a slight start, sitting up in bed,
her eyes where the wall and ceiling joined.
Gerald's face was there, and his blue eyes were open, but the steel
points were gone. They were smiling eyes. They seemed to embrace her, to
wash her in their fluid.
All her fear and the pain in her head were gone. She sat up, looking at
him, the tears streaming down over her smile and her lips moving.
Then, sighing out like a child, she lay back on the pillow, turned over,
and went to sleep.
* * * * *
And this is the story of Hester which so insisted to be told. I think
she must have wanted you to know.
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