The windows were dark. He did not have the assurance to
arouse the family at that time of night.
By that time, walking in the crisp air of the winter night, he had
soothed, somewhat, his fever of anger, sorrow, and shame.
Calmer, he had thoughts only for the bitter wrong that had been done
Clare Kavanagh. Somehow it seemed that all were leagued against her--and
him! Memory of her unselfishness, her simple faith in him, her
abnegation, her true, little-woman trust in his career--it all rushed
upon him. For a time he was almost ashamed to face what memory brought
to him. Then manfully he set himself to read his heart--at least, he
tried to. In the end, hidden in his room, he wept--honest tears of a
strong man conscious that he was unable by his strength to hold disaster
from an innocent. Even his attempt to find the rogue, Spinney, was
futile. He wept, thinking of Clare Kavanagh--exiled from her home,
bravely solving her problem of life alone. He went to sleep thinking of
Clare Kavanagh.
It was fortunate for his self-respect that she filled his mind so
completely at that moment.
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