times and gaze at me with the old wise look hovering at your eyes. But the look did not stay. The child was fond of you, but she faded and pined, and one day as you nursed her you came to me and said: ‘See, my wife, the little one will not wake. She pulled at my beard and said, "Daddy," and fell asleep.’ And I took her from your arms.… There is a chestnut tree near the door of our cottage at the mine. One night you and I buried her there; but you do not remember her, do you?"
"My child! My child!" he said, looking out into the night, and he lifted up his arms and looked at them. "I held her here, and still I never held her; I fondled her, and yet I never fondled her; I buried her, yet—to me—she never was born."
"You have been far away, Francis; you have come back home. I waited, and prayed, and worked with you, and was patient. … It is very strange," she continued. "In all these twelve years you cannot remember our past, though you remembered about this place—the one thing, as if God had made it so—and now you cannot remember those twelve years."
"Tell me now of the twelve years," he urged.
"It was the same from day to day. When we came from the mountain, we brought with us the implements of the forge upon a horse. Now and again as we travelled we cut our way through the heavy woods. You were changed for the better then; a dreadful trouble seemed to have gone from your face. There was a strong kind of peace in the valley, and there were so many birds and animals, and the smell of the trees was so fine, that we were not lonely, neither you nor I."
She paused, thinking, her eyes looking out to where the Evening Star was sailing slowly out of the wooded
