“There’s Agnes coming,” said Mrs. Libby, inarticulately.  She held between her lips some ravellings and bits of thread, and she was sitting by the open window, laboriously pushing her needle through a piece of heavy unbleached cloth.

The young woman who came swaying delicately along the path, with something of the motion of a tall stalk of grass in the wind, wore a scanty white gown, which defined almost cruelly the slenderness of form, that seemed to have returned to the meagre uncertainty of young childhood.  To-day, her light hair was strained back from her wide forehead, and knotted neatly under the brim of her rough straw hat.  She looked much older as she stood before me in the golden light.

“Will you come home with me this afternoon?” she asked directly.  “It is not far; perhaps it might amuse you.”

I consented gladly.  As we walked along the narrow paths that skirted the roadside together, she turned to me, a sudden flush burning on her thin face.  “I am afraid you think I am very cruel to bring you out this hot afternoon, but it is so long since I have talked to any one—­so long!  I have read your books, and then I said last night to myself:  ’If I do not go over it all to some one—­tell it aloud, from beginning to end—­put it into words, I shall go mad.  She is a woman who could understand.’  Yes, when I saw your hands on the beach that day, all bruised inside, and on one a little cut, where you had wrenched at the sand and stone before you slept, I knew you were my escape.  I am abject, but think of the years I have been dying, here, if you despise me.”

“No,” I said, “it is not abject.  Sometimes in one’s life comes a crisis, when one must snatch at some remedy, or else die, or go mad.  If there is not then something in us that makes us believe in a future, we, of course, die; but I could never think it a cure myself, merely to be free of the body, because I believe in the soul’s immortality, and the body is such a diversion!  Once rid of it, with all its imperious clamor to be fed and warmed—­nothing but utter freedom to think—­the grave has never appealed to me as an escape.  Madness is a shade better, perhaps; but then that depends on the form of the illusion.  For me the body has got to work out the soul’s agony.  For you, words may bring relief.  Try—­try anything that suggests itself.”

“Do not think you will hear anything new.  It will bore you.  Are you willing to listen?”

“I am indeed,” I replied.  We had come to a lonely farm-house, its roofs moss-grown and sunken, the grass knee-high about it.  There was hardly a sign of life about the place, though I could see an aged man smoking a pipe peacefully in the shade of an apple tree at the back.  Everything wore an air of melancholy, desertion and loneliness.

My companion lifted the gray gate’s rusty latch.  The grass was crushed enough to form a path to the front door, which stood open.  She led the way into a large, low room off the little hall.  The floor was bare.  There was a large table in the centre, heaped with books, and some withering flowers stood in a glass.  A couple of common chairs, a mattress, on which was thrown an antique curtain of faded blue as a drapery; on the white-washed wall, a tiny and coquetish slipper of yellowish silk, nailed through the sole.  This was all the furnishing.