When Mrs. MacNairn and I went in to dress for dinner, Hector lingered a little behind us because the silent beauty held him.

I came down before his mother did, and I went out upon the terrace again because I saw he was still sitting there.  I went to the stone balustrade very quietly and leaned against it as I turned to look at him and speak.

Then I stood quite still and looked long—­for some reason not startled, not anguished, not even feeling that he had gone.  He was more beautiful than any human creature I had ever seen before.  But It had happened as they said it would.  He had not ceased—­but something else had.  Something had ceased.

It was the next evening before I came out on the terrace again.  The day had been more exquisite and the sunset more wonderful than before.  Mrs. MacNairn was sitting by her son’s side in the bedroom whose windows looked over the moor.  I am not going to say one word of what had come between the two sunsets.  Mrs. MacNairn and I had clung—­and clung.  We had promised never to part from each other.  I did not quite know why I went out on the terrace; perhaps it was because I had always loved to sit or stand there.

This evening I stood and leaned upon the balustrade, looking out far, far, far over the moor.  I stood and gazed and gazed.  I was thinking about the Secret and the Hillside.  I was very quiet—­as quiet as the twilight’s self.  And there came back to me the memory of what Hector had said as we stood on the golden patch of gorse when the mist had for a moment or so blown aside, what he had said of man’s awakening, and, remembering all the ages of—­childish, useless dread, how he would stand—­ I did not turn suddenly, but slowly.  I was not startled in the faintest degree.  He stood there close to me as he had so often stood.

And he stood—­and smiled.

I have seen him many times since.  I shall see him many times again.  And when I see him he always stands—­and smiles.