ANDREW. (_turning down the lamp_) And I’ve got to pack yet. (_He yawns with utter weariness_) I’m as tired as if I’d been plowing twenty-four hours at a stretch. (_Dully_) I feel--dead. (ROBERT _covers his face again with his hands_. ANDREW _shakes his head as if to get rid of his thoughts, and continues with a poor attempt at cheery briskness_) I’m going to douse the light. Come on. (_He slaps his brother on the back._ ROBERT _does not move_. ANDREW _bends over and blows out the lamp. His voice comes from the darkness_) Don’t sit there mourning, Rob. It’ll all come out in the wash. Come on and get some sleep. Everything’ll turn out all right in the end. (ROBERT _can be heard stumbling to his feet, and the dark figures of the two brothers can be seen groping their way toward the doorway in the rear as_ (_The Curtain Falls_) BEYOND THE HORIZON ACT TWO SCENE ONE _Same as Act One, Scene Two. Sitting room of the farm house about half past twelve in the afternoon of a hot, sun-baked day in mid-summer, three years later. All the windows are open, but no breeze stirs the soiled white curtains. A patched screen door is in the rear. Through it the yard can be seen, its small stretch of lawn divided by the dirt path leading to the door from the gate in the white picket fence which borders the road._ _The room has changed, not so much in its outward appearance as in its general atmosphere. Little significant details give evidence of carelessness, of inefficiency, of an industry gone to seed. The chairs appear shabby from lack of paint; the table cover is spotted and askew; holes show in the curtains; a child’s doll, with one arm gone, lies under the table; a hoe stands in a corner; a man’s coat is flung on the couch in the rear; the desk is cluttered up with odds and ends; a number of books are piled carelessly on the sideboard. The noon enervation of the sultry, scorching day seems to have penetrated indoors, causing even inanimate objects to wear an aspect of despondent exhaustion._ _A place is set at the end of the table, left, for someone’s dinner. Through the open door to the kitchen comes the clatter of dishes being washed, interrupted at intervals by a woman’s irritated voice and the peevish whining of a child._