He recalled the white heat of patriotism with which he had written the revolutionary papers of his boyhood, the numberless pamphlets which had finally roused the States to meet in convention and give the wretched country a Constitutional Government, “The Federalist”; which had spurred him to the great creative acts that must immortalize him in history.  He contrasted that patriotic fire with the spirit in which he had written the Adams pamphlet.  The fire had gone out, and the precipitation was gall and worm-wood.  Even the spirit in which he had first attacked Jefferson in print was righteous indignation by comparison.

Had he hated his soul to cinders?  Had the bitterness and the implacability he had encouraged for so many years bitten their acids through and through the lofty ideals which once had been the larger part of himself?  Had the angel in him fallen to the bottom of the pit in that frightful nethermost region of his, for his cynical brain to mock, until that, too, was in its grave?  He thought of the high degree of self-government, almost the perfection, that Washington had attained,—­one of the most passionate men that had ever lived.  Did that great Chieftain stand alone in the history of souls?  He thought of Laurens, with his early despair that self-conquest seemed impossible.  Would he have conquered, had he lived?  What would he or Washington think, were they present to-night?  Would they hate him, or would their love be proof against even this abasement?  He passionately wished they were there, whether they came to revile or console.  Isolated and terror-stricken, he felt as if thrust for ever from the world of living men.

His mind had been turned in, every faculty bent introspectively, but for some moments past his consciousness had vibrated mechanically to an external influence.  It flew open suddenly, as he realized that someone was watching him, and he wheeled his chair opposite the dusk in the lower end of the room.  For a moment it, seemed to him that every function in him ceased and was enveloped in ice.  A face rested lightly on the farther end of the long table, the fair hair floating on either side of it, the eyes fixed upon him with an expression that flashed him back to St. Croix and the last weeks of his mother’s life.  He fancied in that moment that he could even discern the earthen hue of the skin.  When he realized that it was Angelica, he was hardly less startled, but he found his voice.

“When did you return?” he asked, in as calm a tone as he could command.  “And why did you hide in here?”

“I came down with Grandpa, who made up his mind in a minute.  And I came in here to be sure to have a little talk with you alone.  I was going to surprise you as soon as you lit the candle, and then your face frightened me.  It is worse now.”