Oldfield Part 21

Ay, he heard again the very tone in which his own voice uttered these inconceivable words. And then he saw again the dawning bewilderment which crept over the sunny transparency of the exquisite face; the slow shadowing of the soft dark eyes, raised so frankly, so confidingly to his; the quick-coming, quicker-going, quiver of the sweet rose-red lips.

At last, as though the gla.s.s through which he had seen darkly were miraculously become as clear as crystal, he saw again the quivering fall of the long, curling lashes over the lily cheeks, which reddened suddenly, as they rarely did, before growing swiftly whiter than ever; the sudden proud lifting of the golden head, which naturally drooped like some rare orchid too heavy for its delicate waxen stem: the brave, steady, upward look from the soft eyes, now suddenly grown very bright: the abrupt laying down of the simple gift by the little hand, which was always so gently deliberate in all that it did: the hasty moving away of the slender form, which had, up to that time, rested at his side in the perfect trust which only the timid ever give.

All this rushed back, bringing an unendurable self-revelation. The firmest, deepest foundations of his character were shaken in his own estimation. His pride of uprightness, his pride of intelligence, his pride of good breeding, his belief in his own right feeling, his reliance upon his own quickness of perception, his faith in his fineness of sensibility,--all these now stood convicted of weakness and falsity.

Faster and more confusedly many self-delusions flew through the stress of his mind, as burning brands are borne by violent gusts of wind. Thus was hurled the recollection of that day in the graveyard, the day from which had dated this growing aloofness of Doris, an aloofness so gentle that he had mistaken it for timidity; the day from which had dated her increasing unwillingness to continue these daily strolls--an unwillingness so subtle that he had taken it for nothing more than natural anxiety about Miss Judy. Not until this moment had he had the remotest suspicion of the truth, even though it had gradually frozen the sweet freedom of her innocent talk into the silence of cold constraint.

He had been standing still, bowed under this intolerable weight of humiliation, crushed beneath this overwhelming burden of self-reproach.

Now he went slowly onward, unseen and unheard, through the gathering darkness and the deep dust. When he came within sight of the light s.h.i.+ning behind the white curtain over the one window of Doris's humble home, he paused again and leaned on the fence and looked at the window for a long time. He felt that he could not go nearer it that night, that he could not face Doris until he had more fully faced his own soul. As he gazed at the white light, he thought how like it was to the girl herself, so simple, so clear, so steady, so open, s.h.i.+elded only by the single whiteness of purity. A soft breeze coming over the hills rippled the silver leaves,--grown as dark now as the sombre plumes of the cypress tree,--and stirred the white curtain as if with spirit hands.

And then as he lingered there came to him a wonderful change of feeling.

The thought of her stole softly to him through the warm starlight, sweet as the breath of the white jessamine. A great, deep tenderness welled up in his heart and went out to her, sweeping all before it--all untrue dreams of ambition, all false thinking, all self-delusion. Then he knew that he loved her; then he knew that he had loved her from the instant that his eyes had fallen upon her, a vision of beauty framed in roses; then he knew that he would love her with the highest and finest love that was his to bestow--so long as he should live.

When this bitter-sweet truth came home to his troubled heart, it brought with it a calm, tender sadness. Even as he recognized it he felt that his own blind folly, his foolish conceit of wisdom, had robbed him of whatever chance, whatever hope he might have had, of winning her love in return. The fatal, unforgivable blunders into which he had fallen so blindly must forever stand in the way. And he hardly dared think there ever could have been any hope, even had he not so hopelessly offended.

For humility is always the hall-mark of true love. To be loved by the one beloved is always true love's most wondrous miracle.

With a last lingering look at the light s.h.i.+ning through the white curtain, Lynn turned slowly and went down the big road toward his grandmother's house, now lying dark and silent beneath the tall trees which stood over it and amid the thick shrubbery which crowded around it. The pa.s.sionate emotion with which he had left it had pa.s.sed wholly away. The love filling his mind and heart, as with the sudden unfurling of soft wings, left no room for anything hard or unkind or bitter. He had almost forgotten the hard words with which his grandmother had so cruelly stoned him; he had wholly forgiven them. For newly awakened love can forgive almost any harshness in the awakening. He was not, in fact, thinking of his grandmother at all; he was thinking solely of Doris, and was planning to see her at the earliest possible moment on the morrow.

It was not easy of late to see her alone; he realized this now with a guilty pang which touched his new peace with the old pain. Only on the previous evening he had found her gone from her home, without leaving a message for him, as she always used to leave one. Only by the merest accident had he met her coming out of Miss Judy's gate; only by the most urgent persuasion had he been able to induce her to take the accustomed walk to the graveyard, which she used always to be so ready and even eager to take. Ah, that walk up the hillside, which had been as a torch to the tinder of his grandmother's anger! For that, also, as for everything else, he alone was to blame. It was too late to undo what had been done; but never again through any fault of his should evil speaking or evil thinking approach her spotless innocence. It was not for his strong arms to protect her; his own folly had forfeited all hope of that sweetest and most sacred privilege. Nevertheless, he might still beg her to forgive him, even though he knew that forgiveness was impossible for an offence such as his. And he might still tell her that he loved her and ask her to be his wife, although he knew only too well that she would refuse. And then, having done what he could, he would go on with his work. He had not forgotten his ambition, nor had he thought of giving it up; but his old foolish belief that the happiest marriage must hamper a man's life plans had gone with the rest of his blinding delusions. He no longer thought of needing both hands free for the climbing of ambition's unsteady, long ladder. It now seemed to him that he never could win anything worth the winning without Doris to hold up his hands; that nothing either great or small was worth the winning unless shared by her. And his self-delusion had forever lost him all hope of this. Yet he might still beg her to forgive him, he might still tell her that he loved her and ask her to be his wife. Nothing should deny him that honor and happiness--if he were but spared to see another morning's light.

It came with all the misty glory of the late southern summer. There was something melancholy, something foretelling the saddest days of the year, in the sighing wind which drifted the browning leaves of the old locust trees, wafting them down to the thinning gra.s.s. The dim woods belting the purpled horizon already lifted banners of scarlet and gold, waving them here and there on the hillsides, among the fast-fading verdure. The sumac bushes were already binding the foot of the far green hills with brilliant bands of crimson. The near-by blackberry briers were already richly spotted with red. The trumpet-vine, with the dazzling cardinal of its splendid flowers and the rich, dark green of its luxuriant foliage, already made all the crumbling tree-trunks and all the falling rail fences gorgeous mysteries of beauty. The golden-rods were already full-flowering, already gilding the meadows where the black-eyed Susans, too, were aglow, and where the gra.s.s was still vividly green beneath the purple shadows cast by the distant hills--the sad, beautiful, dark shadows which slant before the coming of fall. Beyond the shadows and beyond the hills, the summer sun still flooded the warm fields, turning the vast billowing seas of tobacco from blue-green into golden green. And the wide, deep corn-fields, now flowing in silver-crested waves, were already melting into molten gold.

The great s.h.i.+ps of this vast inland ocean of grain--the huge, heavy-laden wagons, rising high at the ends like the stem and stern of a vessel, and drawn by doubled and trebled teams--already labored, swayingly, on their way to the Ohio River to deliver their cargoes of wheat to the big steamers which were waiting to bear them away to the whole world. Many of these lurched thunderingly by Lynn Gordon, wholly unheeded, as he went on that morning to seek Doris Wendall. It was very early, as early as he could hope to find even Doris awake, notwithstanding that she awakened with the birds. The wild morning-glories, clinging, wet, fragrant, and sparkling, on all the fences along the wayside, were not closed, and still held out their fragrant blue cups, striped with red like streaks of wine, and br.i.m.m.i.n.g with dew. The evening primroses also had forgotten to close, and were still blooming bright and sweet, close in the corners of the fences.

Lynn bent down to gather the freshest and sweetest, because it somehow reminded him of Doris, though he knew not why or how. As he straightened up he suddenly saw her!--with a great leap of his heart. There she was, within a stone's throw, just entering Miss Judy's gate. He was not quite near enough to speak had he found any words; and, although he went swiftly toward her with the long, firm stride of a strong-willed man approaching a distinct purpose, she had flitted out of sight before he reached the gate. He was not sure that she had seen him, but he felt that she had; and the feeling brought back the new distrust of himself, the new lack of confidence in his own judgment, the new insecurity in his own knowledge of what was best to do. All these strange and painful feelings, which he had never known till the humbling revelation of the previous night, rushed together now, to hold him dumb and helpless, with his unsteady hand on the little broken gate.

He turned with a nervous start at a sound by his side. Sidney had drawn near without his seeing her. She stood within a few paces, looking at him, and knitting as usual, but with a look of trouble on her honest face. Silently he bowed and stepped aside, holding the gate open for her to pa.s.s through.

"You've come to ask about Miss Judy," she said, lowering her voice. "I'm afraid she isn't any better. Doris came on ahead of me, but I haven't seen her since, so that I have had no news from Miss Judy for nearly an hour."

"I--I didn't know she was ill," said Lynn, simply.

"Well, your grandmother did. I sent her word last night that we hardly expected Miss Judy to live till daybreak." Sidney spoke a little severely, and she looked at him with frank curiosity.

"I am sincerely grieved. What is it?" the young man faltered.

"It seems to be the same old weakness of the heart that she's always had. Any kind of a shock has always made it worse, and this foolish lawsuit of that crazy Spaniard's--over an old no-account note of her father's--gave her the hardest blow she's had this many a year, poor little soft soul. It didn't make any difference to her that the note wasn't worth the paper it was written on, and that it had been outlawed long ago. She has always had her own queer little notions about things, and you couldn't shake her, either, mild as she has always been. And she's always wors.h.i.+pped her father, so that she couldn't bear to have anything against his name. He never worried himself much about his debts. The major was very slack-twisted in business matters, just between you and me. But the angel Gabriel, himself, couldn't make Miss Judy believe that, even if he were mean enough to try. Last night she came by my house, going on to see Mr. Pettus. She hoped he might buy the house, and that she could raise the money in that way. But she fainted before she could tell him what she wanted, and he carried her home in his arms. Such a poor, light, little mite of a thing! She's been unconscious most of the time since, but whenever she comes to herself she tries to say something about selling the house--in a whisper, so that Miss Sophia won't hear. Then she begins to worry, wondering what Miss Sophia will do if the house is sold, and honestly believing that poor Miss Sophia will feel disgraced if it isn't, when Miss Sophia neither knows nor cares a blessed thing about the whole matter, so that she's let alone to eat and sleep. I am going into the room now to stay with Miss Judy while Doris goes home for a little rest. She wouldn't leave the bedside for an instant last night. Wait for her," Sidney added, a.s.suming a blank, meaningless expression. "When she comes out she can tell you how the poor little soul is."

With a strange tightening of the throat and a tender aching in his breast, Lynn then stood waiting, with his eyes on Miss Judy's window. It seemed a long time before Doris came out, and when she finally appeared, there was something indefinable in her manner which made him feel that she had not come of her own accord. But she was very calm, very quiet, very sad, and very pale; and her soft dark eyes were softer and darker than ever with unshed tears. She merely said that her mother had sent her to say that there was no change. The doctor had decided that there could be but one. And when she had said this she quietly turned back toward Miss Judy's room. No, she answered in reply to his keenly disappointed inquiry, she was not going home. She could rest and sleep--after--Miss Judy was gone. There was so little time now that they could stay together.

XXVI

THE TRAGEDY

The news of Miss Judy's illness reached the judge as he was leaving the tavern for the opening of court. It was then too late for him to go at once in person to ask how she was, as he wished to do, and as he otherwise would have done. But he nevertheless turned back and went to his own room, long enough to write her a few hurried lines telling of his deep and tender concern.

And when this was written he was not satisfied. He sat hesitating for a moment, listening absently to the ringing of the court-house bell. Then, again taking up his pen, he went on to beg her not to give another troubled thought to the note or to the suit. He wrote that possibly the case might come for trial on that very day,--writing this as lovingly, as tenderly, as he could have written to his mother whom he had never known,--and going on to tell her that he wished her to know, only for her own peace of mind, that the payment of the note, both princ.i.p.al and interest, had already been arranged for, and would be made, if possible, before the opening of court. This was, so he wrote, to be quite regardless of the decision in the case, and solely to set her mind wholly at rest. After writing thus far he still sat thinking, feeling as if he had not yet said just what he meant to say, as if he had not been quite tender enough of the little lady's tender sensibilities. With his pen poised he looked out at the pa.s.sing wagons and at the crowd gathering around the court-house, taking no heed of anything save the anxiety in his mind. At last a sudden, gentle smile illuminated his grave, pale face, as he added another paragraph:--

"Of course you understand, my dear little friend, that this money is advanced as a loan which you may repay at your convenience. You will also understand, I am sure, that I should not have taken the liberty of thus settling your private business without your consent, had I not heard of your illness and feared that you were not able to attend to it yourself. As soon as you are well enough you may scold me as much as you like for my presumption. It is, however, to be between ourselves; no one else must know."

He gave the letter to a negro boy and watched him fly like an arrow through the clouds of dust which were hanging heavy over the big road.

He saw the child's hazardous dash between the great wagons, close to the high, grating wheels, under the huge, clanking trace-chains, almost under the beating iron hoofs. For this quiet morning of late summer chanced to be the one out of the whole year when the gra.s.s-grown solitude of Oldfield's single street became a thronged, clamorous, confused thoroughfare.

But the judge cared nothing for all this unwonted turmoil, beyond the safe, swift pa.s.sage of the messenger bearing his letter. He did not know that Miss Judy was too ill to read it, and he was longing to have it reach her before she could hear any troubling news through the possible coming up of the case. Turning slowly toward the court-house, he was thinking solely of her, and the thought of her illness deepened the sorrow for the pain of the world which always lay heavy on his sad heart. As he thought of this gentle soul, whose whole life had been loving sacrifice for others, and whose very life might now be demanded for the wrong-doing of others, the sorrowful mystery of living perplexed him more sorely than ever. As he thought of this other innocent woman suffering, it might be even unto death, through a madman's causeless hatred of himself--even his great faith, measured by his judicial mind, seemed for the moment to shrink.

Feeling his danger, he tried to wrench his thoughts away and to turn them from this morbid brooding. He strove so strenuously that he presently was able to fix his attention on the matters of merely human law and justice which began to come before him, as soon as he had taken his place upon the bench. Thorough training and long practice helped him so that he was gradually able to bring his eminently legal mind to bear upon the wearying routine of the docket with the unerring precision of some marvellous machine.

His fine face was still pale, but there was nothing unusual in its paleness, and it now grew calm and collected under the very intensity of his spirit's stress. For the farthest spiritual extremity lies cold and still beyond all human pa.s.sion, as the supreme summit of perpetual ice rises cold and still above all human life. There was, therefore, no change in his att.i.tude of mind or body when he suddenly saw the dark, threatening visage and the wild, bloodshot eyes of the Spaniard confronting him through the crowded gloom of the heated court-room. He was accustomed to the sight; it had faced him at every term of his court. There was consequently no disturbance, not the slightest uneasiness in the abrupt turning away of his eyes. His sole feeling was one of unutterable weariness of the struggle of living, of utter sickness of mind and heart and soul. He was so weary that he did not even fear himself, so utterly weary that he was--for the moment--no longer afraid even of the unexpected escape of his own fierce temper, always so hardly held in leash. He no longer dreaded the sudden breaking of the steel bars of his own stern self-control, the greatest danger that he had ever found to fear.

When the case against the estate of Major John Bramwell came to trial in its due turn, during the dragging hours of the long, hot afternoon, the judge weighed that also, as he had weighed all which had come before, and as he intended weighing all which were to come after--coolly, calmly, scrupulously--according to the letter of the law. Having so weighed it, and found it wanting, he dismissed the complaint on account of time limitation, and a.s.signed the costs to the plaintiff, as he would have done in any similar case under like circ.u.mstances. Then he pa.s.sed composedly to the deliberate consideration of further business, and the hot, heavy hours droned on.

Through it all he had scarcely glanced at Alvarado; in truth he had scarcely thought of him save as a party to one of the many suits before the court. He had had no opportunity to learn that the Spaniard had refused to accept the money, offered early in the day, in payment of the note. He did not observe Alvarado's leaving the court-room after the decision. He did not know that the man was waiting on the steps when he himself hastened out after the adjournment of court.

Thus it was that the long-coming crisis found him at last wholly unprepared. Thus it was that the blow from the heavy handle of the Spaniard's riding-whip struck him without warning. It sent him, stunned and reeling, down the steps. His hand went out, through blind instinct, and caught one of the portico pillars, so that he did not fall quite to the earth; and he was on his feet instantly, springing to his great height, to his tremendous power--towering above the surrounding crowd.

As he arose, he made one furious leap, like the magnificent bound of a wounded lion, straight at the Spaniard, who stood--still as a statue--braced for the encounter.

A cry of terror had gone up from the crowd when the blow had been struck. Many restraining arms were now raised, as the white fury flashed over the judge's pale face, as rare and deadly lightning glares from the paleness of a winter sky. And then this appalling danger-signal faded even as it flashed forth. The cry of the crowd was suddenly hushed, its swaying was suddenly stilled. There now followed a strange pause of strained waiting!

Every man's eyes were on the judge. No man gave a glance to the Spaniard; every man knew what he meant to do. But the judge--it was on his n.o.ble figure and on his fine face that every man's eyes were riveted. Every man knew his horror of violence of any description, and his abhorrence of the taking of human life under any provocation. Yet every man, thus looking on, held it to be impossible for any man to suffer the degradation which this man had just suffered, without resistance. For in every man's eyes this was, with but one exception, _the most binding of all the many traditions for the shedding of blood_.

No man might suffer it, and ever hope to hold up his head among his fellow-men, without killing, or at least trying to kill, the man who had so degraded him. Breathless, indeed, was this instant's terrible waiting! The bloodthirsty wild beast, which lurks forgotten in most men's hearts, now leaped up in its secret lair, scenting blood, and stared fiercely out of the fierce eyes fixed on the judge. And not one of all these men--all so feeling, all so believing--could credit the evidence of his own senses when he saw this man, who stood so high above other men in body, in mind, and in reputation, now stand still, making no farther advance. Even less could they believe what their own eyes beheld, when they then saw him draw back, slowly and silently, from the nearness to the Spaniard to which that single uncontrollable bound had carried him. And so the crowd stood--stricken dumb and motionless-for a breath's s.p.a.ce! Then--suddenly--every upraised arm came down as the judge's powerful arms fell at his side. Calmly, almost gently, he turned, and, raising his majestic form to its fullest height, and lifting his n.o.ble head to its highest level, he rested his calm, clear gaze on the murderous pa.s.sion of the Spaniard's eyes. It was a long, strange look. It was a look which filled every man who saw it with a feeling of awe; even though not one, of all those who were looking on, could comprehend its meaning. It was a look such as not many are permitted to try to comprehend: it was a look such as no mortal men can ever have seen, save it may have been the few who stood close to the foot of the Cross.

In his own room at the tavern, late on that afternoon, the judge felt more alone than ever before through all his lonely life. He had already begun to suffer the mental reaction which nearly always follows great spiritual exaltation. He was even now thinking of what he had done--what he had _not_ done--as if he were another person. He most distinctly saw its inevitable, far-reaching, and never-ending consequences. He realized that he, no more--perhaps even less--than any other man, could expect to evade them or hope to live them down. The very fact of his prominence could but make the matter more widely known and more disastrous in its results. The high office which he held--though it personified the law--would only make his breaking of this unwritten law all the more unpardonable. Suddenly he felt completely overwhelmed by the weariness of life, which had so weighed upon him through the day. In terrifying fear of himself he sprang to the open window and hurriedly leaned out, finding a measure of safety in the mere presence of the people pa.s.sing on their way home from court. But some of them looked up, and stared at him curiously, so that he drew back. He had not closed the door of his room, and he was glad to hear footsteps in the pa.s.sage, although he merely turned his head without speaking when the man, to whom he had given the money for the payment of the note, came in quietly, and laid it on the table within reach of his hand. Nor did the man speak,--there was nothing for any one to say,--but he stood for a moment hesitatingly, irresolutely; and then, still without speaking, he drew a pistol from his pocket, and laid it on the table beside the money.

When he was gone the judge got up and closed the door, and took the pistol in his hands, which were beginning to tremble now as they had never trembled before. Hastily he put the temptation down, and walked to the door and opened it again: taking swift, aimless turns up and down the room. At the sound of footsteps again pa.s.sing along the pa.s.sage, he called to a servant and asked for some water. The presence of any one would protect him against himself. Turning this way and that, aimlessly, he turned once more to the window, and threw it higher and pushed the curtain further back--as far this time as it would go. He then leaned out again, caring nothing now for the curious gaze of the pa.s.sers-by, caring only that he might escape this overpowering, horrifying, paralyzing fear of himself.

The highway was heavily overhung with clouds of dust as the huge wagons with their mighty teams, which had pa.s.sed in the morning, now rumbled homeward, returning from the journey to the river. Through the dark haze the judge could see only the proud face of his wife, and it seemed to his fevered fancy that her cool smile was cooler than ever with something very like scorn. It seemed to his sick imagination that he could see again the half-contemptuous shrug of her graceful shoulders, the half-scornful lift of her handsome brows, with which she always greeted any disregard of the established order. Above the rude sounds of the iron-bound wheels, the clanking chains, and the beating hoofs, he heard the music of the light laugh with which she had always mocked his own deviations. She had called him an idealist, a dreamer--even a fanatic--half in jest, half in earnest. But this was different. She would not laugh at this, which must alter her position in the world as well as his own. And then, as he thought of this, a doubt for the first time a.s.sailed him, piercing his breast like a poisoned spear. Had he the right--toward her? She had married a man who stood fair before all men.

Again, in the anguish of this last thought, this new dread, this worst doubt, the deadly fear of himself rushed over him. Weakened and sickened in body by the anguish of mind which was rending him, he dared not turn his head toward the table where the temptation lay within such easy reach of his shaking hand.

Leaning as far as possible the other way, he caught sight of the old Frenchman, toiling along the big road on crutches, threading a pa.s.sage through its unusual turmoil with difficulty and pain. Then the wind tossed the deep dust and sent it swirling upward in thick, dark clouds, shutting the highway from the judge's unseeing sight. He had hardly been conscious of seeing Monsieur Beauchamp; everything was pa.s.sing in a fearful dream. He scarcely heard a new, strange roar which now suddenly arose above the voices of the pa.s.sing people, above the rumble, the rattle, and clash of the pa.s.sing wagons and the heavy beating of many great hoofs. But he heard more consciously as this came nearer and louder, like the rapid, roaring approach of a sudden terrible storm. He saw clearly enough when the cause of the violent sounds burst over the highest hilltop, and dashed down its side--as a gigantic wave is driven by a hurricane,--a huge wagon thundering behind six mighty, maddened, runaway horses. Like some monster missile it was hurled this way and that, cras.h.i.+ng terrifically from side to side of the big road; and threatening the whole highway with destruction. Like death-dealing thunder-bolts the flying iron hoofs gave little time to flee for safety, but the danger appeared to give wings to every living creature, brute and human alike. The old Frenchman alone stood still, paralyzed by fright and unable to move. His crutches dropped from his powerless grasp, so that he could no longer even stand, and--tottering and shrieking for help--he fell helpless, p.r.o.ne upon the highway straight in the track of that huge, blurred, black bulk of Force which was being whirled toward him with the speed of a cyclone by the storm-flight of those frenzied horses.

And then the judge's vision magically cleared, and he saw the little Frenchman--his weakness, his utter helplessness--as if by a lightning flash. The judge, starting up with a leap, was down the stairs and running along the big road almost as soon as he realized what it was that he was going to meet. He was such a powerful man, so quick and strong of mind and body, so prompt, so able, so fearless in the doing of everything that he thought right! Ah, the pity of it all!

He could not see the old man upon first reaching the highway. Blinding dust-clouds hung more heavily than ever over the wild, furious confusion of the big road. The people, terror-mad, were fleeing, each one thinking only of his own peril. The drivers, panic-stricken, whirled the clas.h.i.+ng wagons. .h.i.ther and thither, utterly bewildered. The horses, helpless and terrified, plunged amid the clanking of the entangled trace-chains. The dense clouds of smothering dust hung like a blinding pall. But the judge knew where the little Frenchman was lying and sprang straight toward him and found him in time,--barely in time to bend down, to lift him in his mighty arms and toss him like a feather far beyond danger. But there was no more time,--not an instant,--and then the judge himself went down as a church spire falls before a tempest,--down into the dust of the earth under the awful, crus.h.i.+ng hoofs of the maddened horses, down under the cruel, cutting tires of those merciless wheels,--down to death, giving his life for the humblest of his fellow-creatures.

XXVII

THE LAST ARTFULNESS OF MISS JUDY

To Lynn Gordon, as to most of the Oldfield people, it seemed as if this sleepless night--the saddest ever known to the village--never would end.

And yet, when he arose at last, with the first faint glimmer of the day's gray, and looked out through the dew-wet dimness of the green boughs at the softly whitening east, a sudden feeling of peace fell upon his deeply troubled spirit.

The sorrow and terror of the darkness fled away, like evil birds of the night, so peaceful did the world appear, so free from all pain and wrong and cruelty and death, now that the soft white dawn-light--cool, sweet, calm, pure as ever--was coming for the perpetual refreshment of the earth. Under this fresh whiteness from heaven all living creatures looked to be resting untroubled, completely in harmony with one another.

Three little screech-owls sat as a single bunch of gray feathers, motionless among the shadows which still lingered in the nearest tree.

Three little brownish heads merely turned slowly as he appeared at the window, and six big eyes regarded him calmly, as though all belonged to the one small bunch of dark gray feathers, still huddled sleepily together almost within reach of his hand.