It was but a little way now.  The sun had gone behind the mountain, the wind had died, the perfect stillness and loveliness of evening light was over hill and river and the home land, as the riders came out from the woods upon the foot of the bay and saw it all before them.  A cloudless sky, —­ the white clear western light where the sun had been, —­ the bright sleeping water, —­ the sweet lights and shades on Wut-a-qut-o and its neighbour hills, the lower and darker promontory throwing itself across the landscape; and from one spot, that half-seen centre of the picture, the little brown speck on Shah-wee-tah, —­ a thin, thin wreath of smoke slowly went up.  Winthrop for one moment looked, and then rode on sharply and Mr. Underhill was fain to bear him company.  They had rounded the bay —­ they had ridden over the promontory neck —­ they were within a little of home, —­ when Winthrop suddenly drew bridle.  Mr. Underhill stopped.  Winthrop turned towards him, and asked the question not asked till then.

“How is it at home, Mr. Underhill?”

And Mr. Underhill without looking at him, answered in the same tones, a moment of pause between,

“She’s gone.”

Winthrop’s horse carried him slowly forward; Mr. Underhill’s was seen no more that night —­ unless by Mr. Cowslip and his son.

Slowly Winthrop’s horse carried him forward —­ but little time then was needed to bring him round to the back of the house, at the kitchen door, whither the horse-path led.  It was twilight now; the air was full of the perfume of cedars and pines, —­ the clear white light shone in the west yet.  Winthrop did not see it.  He only saw that there was no light in the windows.  And that curl of thin smoke was the only thing he had seen stirring about the house.  He got off his horse and went into the kitchen.

There was light enough to see who met him there.  It was his father.  There was hardly light to see faces; but Mr. Landholm laid both hands on his son’s shoulders, saying,

“My dear boy! —­ it’s all over! —­”

And Winthrop laid his face on his father’s breast, and for a few breaths, sobbed, as he had not done since —­ since his childish eyes had found hiding-place on that other breast that could rest them no more.

It was but a few minutes; —­ and manly sorrow had given way and taken again its quiet self-control; once and for ever.  The father and son wrung each other’s hands, the mute speech of hand to hand telling of mutual suffering and endurance, and affection, —­ all that could be told; and then after the pause of a minute; Winthrop moved on towards the family room, asking softly, “Is she here?” —­ But his father led him through, to the seldom-used east-room.

Asahel was there; but he neither spoke nor stirred.  And old Karen was there, moving about on some trifling errand of duty; but her quick nature was under less government; it did not bear the sight of Winthrop.  Dropping or forgetting what she was about, she came towards him with a bursting cry of feeling, half for herself, half sympathetic; and with the freedom of old acquaintance and affection and common grief, laid her shrivelled black hand on his shoulder and looked up into his face, saying, almost as his father had done, but with streaming eyes and quivering lips,