His mother came into the room, but he did not look up. She closed the window, saying: “Philip, if you intend to lie there, you must be wrapped up, or you will take cold.” He did not speak, and she added: “It's late. It's almost midnight. Won't you go to bed?” He shook his head. “My poor boy! my poor boy!—I am so sorry!” “The worst is over with,” he said. “Can't I help you? It hurts me to see you so. I wish——” “Please go. You can't help me—nothing can. Please go!” His voice was full of entreaty. “How could she treat you so, Philip!” “It wasn't her fault. It was mine. I didn't trust myself. I didn't trust her. I was a coward! She would have taken any risk had I asked it of her, but I was afraid, and this is my punishment.” “Won't you let me spread a blanket over you?” “No, no. I'll get up in a few moments.” He lifted his white drawn face to hers: “Please go, mother. Please go. I—I—can't talk about it.” Reluctantly his mother left him to his solitude. For a while he rested motionless on the bed, then he came to his feet and went to the table, taking his seat beside it, his elbows propped upon its blotted and discolored top. He pictured his altered life. There remained to him one solace if he willed it. He could cheat time by work, and so, perhaps, win fame to fill the place of love, and for the rest—the world could go hang! So he pictured his future, a future vastly less successful than the reality was destined to be, and when he had built his new ideal—buttressed it with hope and courage—he picked up his pen, cleared it of the black rust that had gathered on its point, and commenced to write—to finish the work he had abandoned when the blow fell. All through the night and into the dawn, to and fro across the long pages, with a cheerful little murmur of approval, the pen scratched and labored. THE END End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Hand of The Mighty and Other Stories, by Vaughan Kester