to the night. He came
stumbling in, another whiskey bottle full in his hand. Falling down in
the chair he applied his lips to it and drank--on and on. He was killing
himself there and then. I knew it. I wanted to leap into the room, to
stop him, yet I only watched him. Why?--I want to know why--

At last he fell forward across the Bible with a choking noise. His limbs
struggled. His arms shot out wildly, the table broke under him--there
was a crash of glass. The lamp was extinguished. Darkness crowded the
little room--and silence.

* * * * *

The papers recorded the shocking death of a minister. They did not
record this.

As I stole home that night, alone in my knowledge of the doctor's
appalling end, I heard going before me light and tripping footsteps,
those, apparently, of some youth, not above three yards or so from me.
What wanderer thus preceded me, I asked myself, with a certain tingling
of the nerves, shaken, perhaps, by what I had just seen? I paused. The
steps also paused. The person was stopping too. I resumed my way. Again
I heard the tripping footfalls. Their sound greatly disquieted me, yet I
hurried, intending to catch up the wayfarer. Still the steps hastened
along the highway, and always just before me. I ran, yet did not come up
with any person. I called "Stop! Stop!" There was no reply. Again I
waited. This man--or boy--(the steps seemed young) waited also. I
started forward once more. So did he. Then a fury of fear ran over me,
urging me at all hazards to see in whose train I travelled. We were now
close to Carlounie. We entered the policies. Yes, this person turned
from the public road through my gates into the drive, and the footfalls
reached the very house. I stopped. I dared not approach quite close to
the door. With trembling fingers I fumbled in my pocket, drew out my
match-box, and, in the airless night, struck a match. The tiny flame
burned steadily. I stretched my hand out, approaching it, as I supposed,
to the face of the stranger.

But I saw nothing. Only, on a sudden, I heard some one hasten from me
across the sweep of gravel in the direction of the burn. And then, after
an interval, I heard the rush of startled sheep through the night.

Just so had they scattered on the day I spoke with the grey traveller by
the waterside.

III

THE SOUL OF KATE WALTERS

It is more than two years since I wrote down any incident of my life.
Two years ago I seem