Out on the street she stopped half a dozen times in the first block, thinking she would go back and tell Dr. Parkman she couldn't possibly leave Karl. "Why, he's a terrible man," she mused, half humorously, half tearfully, "sending wives away from husbands like this--wanting people to be lonesome, just because he thinks it's good for them! I'll not do it--I'll go back and tell him I _won't!_" But she did not go back. She felt Dr. Parkman might look unpleasant if a patient came back to say: "I won't."--"No one would ever get up courage enough for that," she concluded mournfully, "so I'll just have to go." CHAPTER XXXIII LOVE'S OWN HOUR It was Sunday, and Ernestine was going away next morning. She had told Karl the day before; it alarmed him at first, for he telephoned Dr. Parkman, asking him to come out. When the doctor arrived he demanded the truth as to Ernestine. Had anything happened? Was she not well? He was so relieved at the doctor's assurance that Ernestine was perfectly well, and was going away because of her work, that he accepted the situation more easily than she had anticipated. "Perhaps it will do me good, liebchen," he told her. "I fear I'm getting to be a selfish brute--taking everything for granted and not appreciating you half enough." But that afternoon it was Ernestine herself who was forced to fight hard for cheerfulness. She did not want to go away. She was curiously depressed about it, and resentful. More than once she was on the point of telephoning to Dr. Parkman that she could not leave Karl. Georgia and Joe and Mrs. McCormick came in about five and Georgia's spirit seemed to blow through the house like a strong, full current of bracing air. She and Joe had returned from California the night before, and there were many things to tell about their trip. Mrs. McCormick said it was indeed curious how some people always had so many more adventures than other people had. She wondered why it was she never met any of these amusing persons Georgia was always telling about. Their visit did Ernestine much good. It was impossible to feel blue or have silly forebodings in the presence of so much naturalness and cheer as always emanated from Georgia. Those hearty laughs had cleared the atmosphere for her. "Look here, liebchen," said Karl, emerging from a brown study, "we must fix up a code." "A code, dear?" "For your writing to me. You see Ross will have to read the letters, and how can you say in every other line you love me, with that duffer reading it out loud?" "Oh, Karl--how stupid of me not to learn writing the other way! You see it never occurred to me I would be away from you. Couldn't I take that manual, and make it out from that?" "Well--you might, but we'll do both; it will be fun to have a code. Now, when you say--'I am a trifle tired,' you mean--'Oh, sweetheart, I am so lonesome for you that I am never going away again!'"