"Have you got the doctor, Phil?"
"Not yet; I wanted to ask you."
"Get him--quick."
Ken ran upstairs. Halfway, he tumbled over something crouched beside the
banisters. It was Kirk, quite wretched. He caught Ken's ankle.
"Mother's crying," he said; "I can hear her. Oh, _do_ something, Ken!"
"I'm going to," said his brother. "Don't sit here in the dark and make
yourself miserable."
He recollected that the landing was no darker for Kirk than any other
place, and added: "You're apt to be stepped on here--I nearly smashed
you. Hop along and tell Maggie that I'm as hungry as an ostrich." But
however hungry Ken may have been as he trudged home from the docks, he
was not so now. A cold terror seized him as he leaned above his mother,
who could not, indeed, stop her tears, nor tell him more than that she
could not bear it, she could not. Ken had never before felt quite so
helpless. He wished, as much as she, that his father were there to tell
them what to do--his tall, quiet father, who had always counseled so
well. He breathed a great thankful sigh when the doctor came in, with
Felicia, white faced, peeping beside his shoulder. Ken said, "I'm glad
you'll take charge, sir," and slipped out.
He and Felicia stood in Kirk's room, silently, and after what seemed an
eternity, the doctor came out, tapping the back of his hand with his
glasses. He informed them, with professional lack of emotion, that their
mother was suffering from a complete nervous breakdown, from which it
might take her months to recover.
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