steps, and he'd stick his head in at the door in the funny, awkward, pathetic way men have in a sick room. And he'd say, 'How's the old girl to-night? I'd better not come near you now, puss, because I'll bring the cold with me. Been lonesome for your old man?' 

 "And I'd say, 'Oh, I don't care how cold you are, dear. The nurse is downstairs, getting my supper ready.' 

 "And then he'd come tiptoeing over to my bed, and stoop down, and kiss me, and his face would be all cold, and rough, and his mustache would be wet, and he'd smell out-doorsy and smoky, the way husbands do when they come in. And I'd reach up and pat his cheek and say, 'You need a shave, old man.' 

 "'I know it,' he'd say, rubbing his cheek up against mine. 

 "'Hurry up and wash, now. Supper'll be ready.' 

 "'Where are the kids?' he'd ask.  'The house is as quiet as the grave. Hurry up and get well, kid. It's darn lonesome without you at the table, and the children's manners are getting something awful, and I never can find my shirts. Lordy, I guess we won't celebrate when you get up! Can't you eat a little something nourishing for supper—beefsteak, or a good plate of soup, or something?' 

 "Men are like that, you know. So I'd say then:  'Run along, you old goose! You'll be suggesting sauerkraut and wieners next. Don't you let Millie have any marmalade to-night. She's got a spoiled stomach.' 

 "And then he'd pound off down the hall to wash up, and I'd shut my eyes, and smile to myself, and everything would be all right, because he was home." 

 There was a long silence. Effie's eyes were closed. But two great tears stole out from beneath each lid and coursed their slow way down her thin cheeks. She did not raise her hand to wipe them away. 

 Gabie's other hand reached over and met the one that already clasped Effie's. 

 "Effie," he said, in a voice that was as hoarse as it was gentle. 

 "H'm?" said Effie. 

 "Will you marry me?" 

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