“Is it over so soon?” asked Faith. She and Una had been holding hands and setting teeth on the Pollock tombstone.
“He—he didn’t whip me at all,” said Carl with a sob, “and—I wish he had—and he’s in there, feeling just awful.”
Una slipped away. Her heart yearned to comfort her father. As noiselessly as a little gray mouse she opened the study door and crept in. The room was dark with twilight. Her father was sitting at his desk. His back was towards her—his head was in his hands. He was talking to himself—broken, anguished words—but Una heard—heard and understood, with the sudden illumination that comes to sensitive, unmothered children. As silently as she had come in she slipped out and closed the door. John Meredith went on talking out his pain in what he deemed his undisturbed solitude.