is
mind was busy with other things; he was thoughtful, abstracted, and upon
reaching the stair landing on the second floor, turned toward the front
of the house when he should have turned toward the rear. He entered what
he supposed to be his room, lit the gas, then stared about him in some
perplexity.

The room he was in was almost bare of furniture. Even part of the carpet
had been taken up. The windows were wide open; a stale odour of drugs
pervaded the air, while upon the bed nothing remained but the mattress
and bolster. For a moment Bennett looked about him bewildered, then he
started sharply. This was--had been--the sick-room. Here, upon that bed,
Ferriss had died; here had been enacted one scene in the terrible drama
wherein he, Bennett, had played so conspicuous a part.

As Bennett stood there looking about him, one hand upon the foot-board of
the bed, a strange, formless oppression of the spirit weighed heavily
upon him. He seemed to see upon that naked bed the wasted,
fever-stricken body of the dearest friend he had ever known. It was as
though Ferriss were lying in state there, with black draperies hung
about the bier and candles burning at the head and foot. Death had been
in that room. Empty though it was, a certain religious solemnity, almost
a certain awe, seemed to bear down upon the senses. Before he knew it
Bennett found himself kneeling at the denuded bed, his face buried, his
arms flung wide across the place where Ferriss had last reposed.

He could not say how long he remained thus--perhaps ten minutes, perhaps
an hour. He seemed to come to himself once more when he stepped out into
the hall again, closing and locking the door of the death-room behind
him. But now all thought of work had left him. In the morning he would
arrange his papers. It was out of the question to think of sleep. He
descended once more to the lower floor of the silent house, and stepped
out again into the open air.

On the veranda, close beside him, was a deep-seated wicker arm-chair.
Bennett sank down into it, drawing his hands wearily across his
forehead. The stillness of a summer night had settled broadly over the
vast, dim landscape. There was no moon; all the stars were out. Very far
off a whippoorwill was calling incessantly. Once or twice from the
little orchard close at hand an apple dropped with a faint rustle of
leaves and a muffled, velvety impact upon the turf. Kamiska, wide awake,
sat motionless upon her haun