“For a long time I heard mother and Abraham talking together; it seemed as if they would never cease.  At last, mother sent up to know if I was not coming to take my tea.  I had forgotten its absence till then.  I went down.  A half-hour later, during which time a momentous mist of silence hung over the house, I heard steps approaching.  You know that it was summer time, and the windows were all thrown open, after the heat of the day.  I had been wondering where every one was gone.  I recognized both of the comers, as their footsteps fell upon the walk, but I heard no words.  Oh, would there had been none to come!  I heard Abraham go on up the stairs, and knew that he was searching for me.  I knew who had come in with him, and I arose from my concealment in the unlighted library, and went into the parlor.  It was Mr. McKey who sat there.

“‘What is it?’ I asked,—­for a gnome of ill was walking up and down in my brain, as we had walked on the sands so few hours before.

“‘What is it?  I don’t know,’ he said.  ’Your brother asked me to come over for a few minutes.’

“Evidently Abraham had not shown him one coal of the fire that burned under his cool seeming.  That is the way with these mountain pine-trees:  one never knows how deep into volcanic fires their roots are plunged.

“‘Something has happened,’ I whispered.  ’Whatever comes, bear it bravely.’

“He laughed, a low, rippling laugh, like the breaking up of ever so many songs all at once; and the notes had not floated down to rest, when mother and Abraham came in.  Mr. McKey arose to greet my mother.  She stood proudly erect, her regal head unbending, her eyes straight on, into an endless future, in which he must have no part,—­that I saw.  Whatever he discerned there, he, too, stood before her and my brother.  Abraham handed me a letter, saying, ‘Read that, for your proof.’

“And I read.  The letter bore the signature of Bernard McKey.  The date was the night of Alice’s death.  The words descriptive of the scene chiselled into my brain were on that fair paper-surface; and there were others, words which only one man may write to one woman.  I read it on to the end.

“‘You are right, Abraham,’ I said, ‘and I thank you for my proof’; and without one word for the pale, handsome face that stood beseechingly between me and the great future, through which I gazed, I went forth alone into the starry night.  Anywhere, to be alone with God, leaving that trio of souls in there; and as I fled past the windows, I heard my mother speak terrible words to one that was, yes, even then, myself.  Some angel must have come down the starry way to guide me; for, without seeking it, without consciousness of whither I fled, I found myself near the old church, where, from the day of my solemn baptism within its walls, I had gone up to the weekly worship.  I crept up close to the door.  In the shadow there no one would see me; and so, upon the hard stones, I writhed through the anguish of the fire and iceberg that made war in my heart.