his steps, passed cautiously from tree to tree, making his way toward the house.
How familiar, how full of memory was every object around him—the trees themselves, the flower beds, the sweep of lawn, so delicate a shade of light green now with the moon's softening rays upon it—those blacker shadows ahead, dense, impenetrable, were the great elm and the giant willow, one at each corner of the veranda, whose branches, all but meeting, almost entirely hid the house from view.
How silent, how still, how peaceful it was! There was no sound, not even the stir of leaves in the trees—he stopped abruptly, dazed, as though some blow had fallen upon him and in its sudden hurt had left him dismayed and faint. Yes; it was silent, still—and dark. He had come to the elm; the house, barely five yards away, was before him—dark. No light in any window—no sound—and he had not asked for much—only for very little.
For a moment he stood silently behind the elm trying in a fogged way to think this out. All that afternoon the picture in his mind had been so distinct, so real, so vivid, so actual—he was standing just where he was standing now, and the window was open and she was sitting there by the table, the lamplight falling, oh, so softly, on the golden head and—his hand brushed swiftly across his eyes—and instead it was all dark and nothingness. He had tried to tell himself that it might be like this, but he had needed her so much, and love and hope and yearning had risen in arms against the practical and the matter of fact—and only the picture had lived.
Calmer presently after the first shock of bitter disap-
