used for bathing by good
swimmers who were not afraid of a plunge into deep water. I stood on the
platform and looked round me. The trees that fringed the shore on either
hand murmured their sweet sylvan music in the night air; the moonlight
trembled softly on the rippling water. Away on my right hand I could
just see the old wooden shed that once sheltered my boat in the days
when Mary went sailing with me and worked the green flag. On my left
was the wooden paling that followed the curves of the winding creek, and
beyond it rose the brown arches of the decoy for wild fowl, now falling
to ruin for want of use. Guided by the radiant moonlight, I could see
the very spot on which Mary and I had stood to watch the snaring of the
ducks. Through the hole in the paling before which the decoy-dog had
shown himself, at Dermody's signal, a water-rat now passed, like a
little black shadow on the bright ground, and was lost in the waters
of the lake. Look where I might, the happy by-gone time looked back
in mockery, and the voices of the past came to me with their burden of
reproach: See what your life was once! Is your life worth living now?

I picked up a stone and threw it into the lake. I watched the circling
ripples round the place at which it had sunk. I wondered if a practiced
swimmer like myself had ever tried to commit suicide by drowning, and
had been so resolute to die that he had resisted the temptation to let
his own skill keep him from sinking. Something in the lake itself, or
something in connection with the thought that it had put into my mind,
revolted me. I turned my back suddenly on the lonely view, and took the
path through the wood which led to the bailiff's cottage.

Opening the door with my key, I groped my way into the well-remembered
parlor; and, unbarring the window-shutters, I let in the light of the
moon.

With a heavy heart I looked round me. The old furniture--renewed,
perhaps, in one or two places--asserted its mute claim to my recognition
in every part of the room. The tender moonlight streamed slanting
into the corner in which Mary and I used to nestle together while Dame
Dermody was at the window reading her mystic books. Overshadowed by the
obscurity in the opposite corner, I discovered the high-backed arm-chair
of carved wood in which the Sibyl of the cottage sat on the memorable
day when she warned us of our coming separation, and gave us her
blessing for the last time. Looking next round the