He took his departure, and was soon out of sight among the windings of the wood-path.  But after a little reflection, I could not help regretting that I had so peremptorily broken off the interview, while the stranger seemed inclined to continue it.  His evident knowledge of matters affecting my three friends might have led to disclosures or inferences that would perhaps have been serviceable.  I was particularly struck with the fact that, ever since the appearance of Priscilla, it had been the tendency of events to suggest and establish a connection between Zenobia and her.  She had come, in the first instance, as if with the sole purpose of claiming Zenobia’s protection.  Old Moodie’s visit, it appeared, was chiefly to ascertain whether this object had been accomplished.  And here, to-day, was the questionable Professor, linking one with the other in his inquiries, and seeking communication with both.

Meanwhile, my inclination for a ramble having been balked, I lingered in the vicinity of the farm, with perhaps a vague idea that some new event would grow out of Westervelt’s proposed interview with Zenobia.  My own part in these transactions was singularly subordinate.  It resembled that

of the Chorus in a classic play, which seems to be set aloof from the possibility of personal concernment, and bestows the whole measure of its hope or fear, its exultation or sorrow, on the fortunes of others, between whom and itself this sympathy is the only bond.  Destiny, it may be,—­the most skilful of stage managers,—­seldom chooses to arrange its scenes, and carry forward its drama, without securing the presence of at least one calm observer.  It is his office to give applause when due, and sometimes an inevitable tear, to detect the final fitness of incident to character, and distil in his long-brooding thought the whole morality of the performance.

Not to be out of the way in case there were need of me in my vocation, and, at the same time, to avoid thrusting myself where neither destiny nor mortals might desire my presence, I remained pretty near the verge of the woodlands.  My position was off the track of Zenobia’s customary walk, yet not so remote but that a recognized occasion might speedily have brought me thither.

XII.  COVERDALE’S HERMITAGE

Long since, in this part of our circumjacent wood, I had found out for myself a little hermitage.  It was a kind of leafy cave, high upward into the air, among the midmost branches of a white-pine tree.  A wild grapevine, of unusual size and luxuriance, had twined and twisted itself up into the tree, and, after wreathing the entanglement of its tendrils around almost every bough, had caught hold of three or four neighboring