upon Mamma—he could see her as she sat—or it might be the darkness of sorrow and weariness and loneliness, as yonder, round Bertha. Were the shadows not deepening round Paul and Dorine, for all their youth? . . . Had it not been as a night round Ernst, even though he was now stepping out of the dark . . . back into the twilight that surrounded them all? . . . Was it their fault or the fault of their life: the small life of small souls? . . . Did the twilight come from their blood, which grew poorer, or from their life, which grew smaller? . . . Would they never behold through the twilight the vistas, far-reaching as the dawn, where life, when all was said, must be spacious . . . and would they never strive for that? Would his children never strive for that? Would they never send forth the rays of their golden sunlight towards the greater life and would they not grow into great souls? . . . Would the twilight, afterwards, deepen . . . and deepen . . . and deepen . . . around them too . . . until perhaps the very great things of life came thundering and lightening unexpectedly before them, crushing them and blinding them . . . because they had not learnt to see the light? . . .
He tried to remember thoughts of former days . . . but they shot ahead, like winged ironies. He knew only that night was falling, one vast night around all the family, under the grey skies of their winter. He knew only that the light was growing
