happen, one's money to be lost, or one's friends to die or go
away; that somehow they had misfortunes preparing for one."

"I know the feeling well enough, but I'm sure you needn't have it
to-night."

"Oh, I don't know. It doesn't come without a reason. You've no
superstitions, I suppose? I have many; as a child I learned them all.
They're never wrong. Yes, something is to happen."

I shrugged my shoulders and laughed.

"You'll come to-morrow?" she asked, with increased and most unusual
urgency.

"If possible," I answered again.

"But why won't you promise? Why do you always say 'if possible'? You're
tiresome with your 'if possible.'" She shrugged her shoulders
petulantly.

"I might be ill."

"Yes, and you might be dead, but----" She had begun petulantly and
impatiently, as though she were angry at my excuse and meant to exhibit
its absurdity. But now she stopped suddenly. In the pause the wind
moaned.

"I hate that sound," she cried resentfully. "It comes from the souls of
the dead as they fly through the air. They fly round and round the
houses, crying to those who must join them soon."

"Ah, well, these people were, doubtless, often wrong when they were
alive. Why must they be always right when they're dead?"

"No, death is near to-night. I wish you would stay with me--here,
talking and forgetting it's night. I would make you coffee and sing to
you. We would shut the window and light all the lights, and pretend it
was day."

"I can't stay," I said. "I must get back. I have business early."

It is difficult to be in contact with such a mood as hers was that night
and not catch something of its infection. Reason protests, but
imagination falls a ready prey. I had no fear, but a sombre apprehension
of evil settled on me. I seemed to know that our season of thoughtless,
reckless merriment was done, and I mourned for it. There came over me a
sorrow for her, but I made no attempt to express what she certainly
would not have understood. To feel for others what they do not feel for
themselves is a distortion of sympathy which often afflicts me. Her
discomfort was purely childish, a sudden fear of the dark night, the
dark world, the ways of fortune so dark and unknowable. No
self-questioning and no sting of conscience had any part in it. She had
been happy, and she wanted to go on being happy; but now she was afraid
she was going to be unhappy, and she shrank from unhappiness as from a
toothache. I took her