In Aaron’s own house, the young person was still talking to Mrs. Sisson.  Millicent came out, sheltering a candle with her hand.  The candle blew out.  She ran indoors, and emerged again, her white pinafore fluttering.  This time she performed her little journey safely.  He could see the faint glimmer of her candle emerging secretly from the closet.

The young person was taking her leave.  He could hear her sympathetic —­“Well—­good night!  I hope she’ll be no worse.  Good night Mrs. Sisson!” She was gone—­he heard the windy bang of the street-gate.  Presently Millicent emerged again, flitting indoors.

So he rose to his feet, balancing, swaying a little before he started into motion, as so many colliers do.  Then he moved along the path towards the house, in the rain and darkness, very slowly edging forwards.

Suddenly the door opened.  His wife emerged with a pail.  He stepped quietly aside, on to his side garden, among the sweet herbs.  He could smell rosemary and sage and hyssop.  A low wall divided his garden from his neighbour’s.  He put his hand on it, on its wetness, ready to drop over should his wife come forward.  But she only threw the contents of her pail on the garden and retired again.  She might have seen him had she looked.  He remained standing where he was, listening to the trickle of rain in the water-butt.  The hollow countryside lay beyond him.  Sometimes in the windy darkness he could see the red burn of New Brunswick bank, or the brilliant jewels of light clustered at Bestwood Colliery.  Away in the dark hollow, nearer, the glare of the electric power-station disturbed the night.  So again the wind swirled the rain across all these hieroglyphs of the countryside, familiar to him as his own breast.

A motor-car was labouring up the hill.  His trained ear attended to it unconsciously.  It stopped with a jar.  There was a bang of the yard-gate.  A shortish dark figure in a bowler hat passed the window.  Millicent was drawing down the blind.  It was the doctor.  The blind was drawn, he could see no more.

Stealthily he began to approach the house.  He stood by the climbing rose of the porch, listening.  He heard voices upstairs.  Perhaps the children would be downstairs.  He listened intently.  Voices were upstairs only.  He quietly opened the door.  The room was empty, save for the baby, who was cooing in her cradle.  He crossed to the hall.  At the foot of the stairs he could hear the voice of the Indian doctor:  “Now little girl, you must just keep still and warm in bed, and not cry for the moon.”  He said “de moon,” just as ever.—­Marjory must be ill.

So Aaron quietly entered the parlour.  It was a cold, clammy room, dark.  He could hear footsteps passing outside on the asphalt pavement below the window, and the wind howling with familiar cadence.  He began feeling for something in the darkness of the music-rack beside the piano.  He touched and felt—­he could not find what he wanted.  Perplexed, he turned and looked out of the window.  Through the iron railing of the front wall he could see the little motorcar sending its straight beams of light in front of it, up the street.