His voice tightened. He put his head down on the side of the bed.

He was very docile that day. He moved obediently from his room for
the awful aftermath of a death, for the sweeping and dusting and clean
curtains, and sat in Dick's room, not reading, not even praying, a
lonely yet indomitable old figure. When his friends came, elderly men
who creaked in and tried to reduce their robust voices to a decorous
whisper, he shook hands with them and made brief, courteous replies.
Then he lapsed into silence. They felt shut off and uncomfortable, and
creaked out again.

Only once did he seem shaken. That was when Elizabeth came swiftly in
and put her arms around him as he sat. He held her close to him, saying
nothing for a long time. Then he drew a deep breath.

"I was feeling mighty lonely, my dear," he said.

He was the better for her visit. He insisted on dressing that evening,
and on being helped down the stairs. The town, which had seemed inimical
for so long, appeared to him suddenly to be holding out friendly hands.
More than friendly hands. Loving, tender hands, offering service and
affection and old-time friendship. It moved about sedately, in
dark clothes, and came down the stairs red-eyed and using
pocket-hand-kerchiefs, and it surrounded him with love and loving
kindness.

When they had all gone Harrison Miller helped him up the stairs to where
his tidy bed stood ready, and the nurse had placed his hot milk on a
stand. But Harrison did not go at once.