A month went by and I had almost ceased to interest myself in their affairs when one night our entire little community was thrown into excitement by an event which vividly recalled my experience in the forest.

This was the death of the elder girl, Pauline.

The sisters had occupied the same bedroom on the third floor of the house.  Waking in the gray of the morning Eva had found Pauline dead beside her.  Later, when the poor girl was weeping beside the body amid a throng of sympathetic if not very considerate persons, Mr. Benning entered the room and appeared to be about to take her hand.  She drew away from the side of the dead and moved slowly toward the door.

“It is you,” she said—­“you who have done this.  You—­you—­you!”

“She is raving,” he said in a low voice.  He followed her, step by step, as she retreated, his eyes fixed upon hers with a steady gaze in which there was nothing of tenderness nor of compassion.  She stopped; the hand that she had raised in accusation fell to her side, her dilated eyes contracted visibly, the lids slowly dropped over them, veiling their strange wild beauty, and she stood motionless and almost as white as the dead girl lying near.  The man took her hand and put his arm gently about her shoulders, as if to support her.  Suddenly she burst into a passion of tears and clung to him as a child to its mother.  He smiled with a smile that affected me most disagreeably—­perhaps any kind of smile would have done so—­and led her silently out of the room.

There was an inquest—­and the customary verdict:  the deceased, it appeared, came to her death through “heart disease.”  It was before the invention of heart failure, though the heart of poor Pauline had indubitably failed.  The body was embalmed and taken to San Francisco by some one summoned thence for the purpose, neither Eva nor Benning accompanying it.  Some of the hotel gossips ventured to think that very strange, and a few hardy spirits went so far as to think it very strange indeed; but the good landlady generously threw herself into the breach, saying it was owing to the precarious nature of the girl’s health.  It is not of record that either of the two persons most affected and apparently least concerned made any explanation.

One evening about a week after the death I went out upon the veranda of the hotel to get a book that I had left there.  Under some vines shutting out the moonlight from a part of the space I saw Richard Benning, for whose apparition I was prepared by having previously heard the low, sweet voice of Eva Maynard, whom also I now discerned, standing before him with one hand raised to his shoulder and her eyes, as nearly as I could judge, gazing upward into his.  He held her disengaged hand and his head was bent with a singular dignity and grace.  Their attitude was that of lovers, and as I stood in deep shadow to observe I felt even guiltier than on that memorable night in the wood.  I was about to retire, when the girl spoke, and the contrast between her words and her attitude was so surprising that I remained, because I had merely forgotten to go away.