pecial circumstances that had brought us
together. But the reticence of my companion was contagious. It was
like a bridle on my tongue. The sadness of it all haunted me, and
paralysed my speech; and I swerved off again at every threatened
allusion. We sat on for awhile, they on either side of the roomy
fireplace, and I between them, whilst the good woman and her daughters
washed up the tea-things. The clatter of the dishes, and the babel of
many voices, made it impossible for us to speak freely on the subject
nearest our hearts. At length we rose to go. I noticed, on the part
of my two aged companions, a peculiar reluctance to separate. Each
longed, yet dreaded, to speak. There was evidently so much to be said,
and yet speech seemed so hopeless.

At last our friend said that he would walk a few steps with us. We
said good-bye to the great household and set off into the night.

I shall never forget that walk! It was a clear, frosty evening. The
moonlight was radiant. Every twig was tipped with silver. The
smallest object could be seen distinctly. I watched the rabbits as
they popped timidly in and out of the great gorse hedgerows. A hare
went scurrying across the field. I felt all at once that I was an
intruder. What right had I to be in the company of these two aged
brethren in the very crisis of their lifelong friendship? No
Conference on earth could vest me with authority to invade this holy
ground! I made an excuse, and hurried on, walking some distance in
front of them. But the night was so still that, even at that distance,
had a word been uttered I must have heard it. I could hear the clatter
of hoofs on the hard road two miles ahead. I could hear the dogs
barking at a farmhouse twice as far away. I could hear a rabbit
squealing in a trap on the fringe of the bush far behind us. But no
word did I hear. For none was uttered. Side by side they walked on
and on in perfect silence. I once paused and allowed them to approach.
They were crying like children. Stern old Puritans! They were built
of the stuff that martyrs are made of. Either would have died a
hundred deaths rather than have been false to conscience, or to truth,
or to the other. Either would have died a hundred deaths to save the
other from one. Neither could be coaxed or cowed into betraying one
jot or tittle of his heart's best treasure. And each knew, whilst he
trembled for himself, that all this was true of the other