Anthony Dexter. It had been cold and calm and cruel,
until he came to her house. His eyes were fish-like, and, stirred by
emotion, he was little less than hideous.

Her suffering had been an obsession--there had been no reason for it,
not the shadow of an excuse. A year, as the Piper said, would have
been long enough for her to grieve. She saw her long sorrow now as
something outside of herself, a beast whose prey she had been. When
Anthony Dexter had proved himself a coward, she should have thanked God
that she knew him before it was too late. And because she was weak in
body, because her hurt heart still clung to her love for him, she had
groped in the darkness for more than half of her life.

And now he had come back! The blood of triumph surged hard. She loved
him no longer; then, why was she not free? Her chains yet lay heavily
upon her; in the midst of victory, she was still bound.

The night waned. She was exhausted by stress of feeling and the long
vigil, but the iron, icy hand that had clasped her .heart so long did
not for a moment relax its hold. She went to the window and looked
out. Stars were paling, the mysterious East had trembled; soon it
would be day.

She watched the dawn as though it were for the first time and she was
privileged to stand upon some lofty peak when "God said: 'Let there be
light,' and there was light." The tapestry of morning flamed
splendidly across the night, reflecting its colour back upon her
unveiled face.

From far away, in the distant hills, whose summits only as yet were
touched with dawn, came faint, sweet music--the pipes o' Pan. She
guessed that the Piper was abroad with Laddie, in some fantastic spirit
of sun-worship, and smiled.

Her little hour of triumph was over; her soul was once more back in its
prison. The prison house was larger, and different, but it was still a
prison. For an instant, freedom had flashed before her and dazed her;
now it was dark again.

"Why?" breathed Evelina. "Dear God, why?"

As if in answer, the music came back from the hills in uncertain
silvery echoes. "Oh, pipes o' Pan," cried Evelina, choking back a sob,
"I pray you, find me! I pray you, teach me joy!"

XV

The State of Araminta's Soul

The Reverend Austin Thorpe was in his room at Miss Mehitable's, with a
pencil held loosely in his wrinkled hand. On the table before him was
a pile of rough copy paper, and at the top of the first sheet was
written,