could only rest there, glowing with an awakened pride as he remembered the trust with which she had always turned to him when a child. But she was a child no longer. It was a woman's sigh that came from out the darkness, a woman he was almost afraid of, a stranger, though of his own flesh and blood.
Chaotic thoughts were filtering through his tired head as he stood in silent communion with his memories, but somehow he saw in their relationship the parable of the green vine which feeds its sap to the blossoming fruit that it might yield its harvest when the vine is waste. And he questioned himself, "The vine gives all. Have I given all? Have I even given enough?" . . . The answer beat down upon him with blows that were almost tangible; no, no, no! Not everything! Not even enough! Though the fruit was fed with the blood of his own heart. What had he done for his children? Michael Flynn's conscience cried out to him. Yes, what had he done? What could he do—he, a failure . . . a plumber's assistant after twenty years of ceaseless toil, a failure who could never reach those heights of which he had dreamed, where he, master of his own shop, could support in comfort his wife and children . . . a failure . . . who had nothing but love to give.
And then, when another sigh came from Minnie a shudder passed through him. It was as if an icy blast had wrapped itself around him. Stark fear possessed him . . . had he come too late?
"Minnie!" he cried, and his voice crashed upon the silence. "Minnie!"
It awakened her from a heavy, dream-disturbed sleep. She sat bolt upright in bed, her heart thumping with the reaction of the sudden shock. "What is it? Who's that standing there? Nettie!"
