For a time that calmed and sustained him; he believed in it; it was his weapon to use against the doubts and terrors which preyed upon him. But the gloom of his soul seemed to thicken with the deepening of the night. His heart grew cold with the coming of the shadows. The passing of day inspired in him fears not to be reasoned away. He grew very nervous during the evening and finally said he must go over to the laboratory and arrange some things for morning. Ernestine protested against it--and if he must go would he not let her go with him? But he told her he believed it would be better for his head if he walked alone for just a little while. He did not have a headache more than once in five years, he assured her, laughing a little, and when he did, it was apt to upset him. When he came back at last--it seemed to her a very long time--she saw, watching from the window, that he was walking very slowly, almost as if exhausted She could not hold back her alarm at his white, worn face. Something in it gripped at her heart. "Is it worse, dear?" she asked anxiously. "It's a little bad--just now. I'll go to bed. It will be better then." He spoke slowly, as though very tired. "Won't you take something for it, Karl?" she persisted. "Won't you?" "I do not know of anything to take that would do any good, Ernestine,"--and he could not quite keep the quiver out of those words. "But other people take things. There _are_ things. Let me go out and get you something." He shook his head. "Doctors don't take much stock in medicine," he said, with a touch of his usual humour. She wanted to stay with him until he went to sleep. She wanted to put cold cloths on his head. It was hard to avoid Ernestine's tenderness. "It did not show anything," he assured himself, pleadingly, when alone. "It only showed that it was going to show in the morning. I knew that. I knew all the time I was going to know in the morning. I'll not go to pieces. I'll not be a fool about it," he kept repeating. But a little later Ernestine was sure she heard him groan. She could not keep away from that. "Oh, sweetheart," she murmured, kneeling by his bed, "I can't bear it not to help you. Let me do just some little thing," she pleaded. He put his hand over in hers. "Hold it, dear; if you aren't too tired. I don't want to talk,--but hold on to my hand." His grip grew very tight after a minute. She was sure his head must be paining terribly. If only he would take something for it! In a little while he grew very quiet. Soon she was sure that he was asleep. But after she had at last stolen away he turned and buried his face in his arms. CHAPTER XV THE VERDICT