Bred under Moravian influence, he half-believed the text to be supernaturally suggested to him.  For a moment his purpose wavered, but the habit of going through with an undertaking took the place of his will, and he went on blindly, as Baker the Nile explorer did, “more like a donkey than like a man.”  Once on the upper porch he hesitated again.  To break into a man’s house in this way was unlawful.  His conscience troubled him.  In vain he reasoned that Mrs. Anderson’s despotism was morally wrong, and that this action was right as an offset to it.  He knew that it was not right.

I want to remark here that there are many situations in life in which a conscience is dreadfully in the way.  There are people who go straight ahead to success—­such as it is—­with no embarrassments, no fire in the rear from any scruples.  Some of these days I mean to write an essay on “The Inconvenience of having a Conscience,” in which I shall proceed to show that it costs more in the course of a year or two, than it would to keep a stableful of fast horses.  Many a man could afford to drive Dexters and Flora Temples who would be ruined by a conscience.  But I must not write the essay here, for I am keeping August out in the night air and his perplexity all this time.

August Wehle had the habit, I think I have said, of going through with an enterprise.  He had another habit, a very inconvenient habit doubtless, but a very manly one, of listening for the voice of his conscience.  And I think that this habit would have even yet turned him back, as he had his hand on the window-sash, had it not been that while he stood there trying to find out just what was the decision of his conscience, he heard the voices of the returning family.  There was no time to lose, there was no shelter on the porch, in a minute more they would be in sight.  He must go ahead now, for retreat was cut off.  He lifted the window and climbed into the room, lowering the sash gently behind him.  As no one ever came into this room but Jonas, he felt safe enough.  Jonas would plan a meeting after midnight in Cynthy Ann’s room, and in Cynthy Ann’s presence.

In groping for a chair, August drew aside the curtain of the gable-window, hoping to get some light.  Had Jonas taken to cultivating flowers in pots?  Here was a “monthly” rose on the window-seat!  Surely this was the room.  He had occupied it during his stay in the house.  But he did not know that Mrs. Anderson had changed the arrangement between his leaving and the coming of Jonas.  He noticed that the curtains were not the same.  He trembled from head to foot.  He felt for the bureau, and recognized by various little articles, a pincushion, a tuck-comb, and the sun-bonnet hanging against the window-frame, that he was in Julia’s room.  His first emotion was not alarm.  It was awe, as pure and solemn as the high-priest may have felt in the holy place.  Everything pertaining to Julia had a curious sacredness, and this room was