that of the cook and the nurse. "The less you meddle here," it said,
"the better it will be for Joe. Leave him to me."

Gleams of this feeling came in his eyes. It showed now and then so
openly that even Joe took notice. He stopped bringing his partner home,
and he drew closer to Ethel now, as together they cherished the memory
of the woman who was gone.

And slowly, in this companionship, this loneliness, this quiet, Joe grew
very real to her, and appealing in his grief. Everything else seemed so
remote--but he was close. "He needs me." It was a bright spot in the
dark. At times this darkness had no end, it stretched away to eternity;
but at least she did not face it alone. Of Joe's grief she could have
no doubt. Each week his blunt strong features displayed more lines of
suffering; his high cheek-bones showed hard and grim. He was grateful,
affectionate at times, but more often silent, and she saw in his eyes
what frightened her. He had so few resources here. In his office was
his work, just as it had always been; but at home there was nothing; his
wife was gone, and he seemed restless to get out.

"Let's go somewhere," he would mutter.

She went with him for strolls in the evenings. Often they walked on and
on till both were ready to drop with fatigue, but she stuck doggedly by
his side. One evening they passed the open door of a church. It was
lighted, and the deep low rumble of an organ floated out. Joe stopped a
moment irresolute, and then started to go inside. But a glance through
the door revealed to him that the church was nearly empty; and he turned
away as he would have turned from any show on Broadway which was so
obviously "not a hit."