`` Hold out your hand , '' he said to Carl . Carl threw back his head and held out his hand unflinchingly . But he was not very old and he could not quite keep a little fear out of his eyes . Mr. Meredith looked down into those eyes -- why , they were Cecilia 's eyes -- her very eyes -- and in them was the selfsame expression he had once seen in Cecilia 's eyes when she had come to him to tell him something she had been a little afraid to tell him . Here were her eyes in Carl 's little , white face -- and six weeks ago he had thought , through one endless , terrible night , that his little lad was dying . John Meredith threw down the switch . `` Go , '' he said , `` I can not whip you . '' Carl fled to the graveyard , feeling that the look on his father 's face was worse than any whipping . `` Is it over so soon ? '' asked Faith . She and Una had been holding hands and setting teeth on the Pollock tombstone . `` He -- he did n't whip me at all , '' said Carl with a sob , `` and -- I wish he had -- and he 's in there , feeling just awful . '' Una slipped away . Her heart yearned to comfort her father . As noiselessly as a little gray mouse she opened the study door and crept in . The room was dark with twilight . Her father was sitting at his desk . His back was towards her -- his head was in his hands . He was talking to himself -- broken , anguished words -- but Una heard -- heard and understood , with the sudden illumination that comes to sensitive , unmothered children . As silently as she had come in she slipped out and closed the door .
John Meredith went on talking out his pain XXXXX what he deemed his undisturbed solitude .
As ago at in into on than that through towards