m. A cloudless sky, -- the
white clear western light where the sun had been, -- the bright
sleeping water, -- the sweet lights and shades on Wut-a-qut-o
and its neighbour hills, the lower and darker promontory
throwing itself across the landscape; and from one spot, that
half-seen centre of the picture, the little brown speck on
Shah-wee-tah, -- a thin, thin wreath of smoke slowly went up.
Winthrop for one moment looked, and then rode on sharply and
Mr. Underhill was fain to bear him company. They had rounded
the bay -- they had ridden over the promontory neck -- they were
within a little of home, -- when Winthrop suddenly drew bridle.
Mr. Underhill stopped. Winthrop turned towards him, and asked
the question not asked till then.

"How is it at home, Mr. Underhill?"

And Mr. Underhill without looking at him, answered in the same
tones, a moment of pause between,

"She's gone."

Winthrop's horse carried him slowly forward; Mr. Underhill's
was seen no more that night -- unless by Mr. Cowslip and his
son.

Slowly Winthrop's horse carried him forward -- but little time
then was needed to bring him round to the back of the house,
at the kitchen door, whither the horse-path led. It was
twilight now; the air was full of the perfume of cedars and
pines, -- the clear white light shone in the west yet. Winthrop
did not see it. He only saw that there was no light in the
windows. And that curl of thin smoke was the only thing he had
seen stirring about the house. He got off his horse and went
into the kitchen.

There was light enough to see who met him there. It was his
father. There was hardly light to see faces; but Mr. Landholm
laid both hands on his son's shoulders, saying,

"My dear boy! -- it's all over! --"

And Winthrop laid his face on his father's breast, and for a
few breaths, sobbed, as he had not done since -- since his
childish eyes had found hiding-place on that other breast that
could rest them no more.

It was but a few minutes; -- and manly sorrow had given way and
taken again its quiet self-control; once and for ever. The
father and son wrung each other's hands, the mute speech of
hand to hand telling of mutual suffering and endurance, and
affection, -- all that could be told; and then after the pause
of a minute; Winthrop moved on towards the family room, asking
softly, "Is she here?" -- But his father led him through, to
the seldom-used east-room.

Asahel was there; but he neither spoke nor st