ent through the fields, his heavy step crushing the snow,
a dry heat in his blood, his eye intent, still, until he came within
sight of the farm-house; then he went on, cool and grave, in his
ordinary port.

The house was quite dark; only a light in one of the lower windows,--the
library, he thought. The broad field he was crossing sloped down to the
house, so that, as he came nearer, he saw the little room quite plainly
in the red glow of the fire within, the curtains being undrawn. He had a
keen eye; did not fail to see the marks of poverty about the place, the
gateless fences, even the bare room with its worn and patched carpet:
noted it all with a triumphant gleam of satisfaction. There was a black
shadow passing and repassing the windows: he waited a moment looking at
it, then came more slowly towards them, intenser heats smouldering in
his face. He would not surprise her; she should be as ready as he was
for the meeting. If she ever put her pure hand in his again, it should
be freely done, and of her own good-will.

She saw him as he came up on the porch, and stopped, looking out, as if
bewildered,--then resumed her walk, mechanically. What it cost her to
see him again he could not tell: her face did not alter. It was lifeless
and schooled, the eyes looking straight forward always, indifferently.
Was this his work? If he had killed her outright, it would have been
better than this.

The windows were low: it had been his old habit to go in through them,
and he now went up to one unconsciously. As he opened it, he saw her
turn away for an instant; then she waited for him, entirely tranquil,
the clear fire shedding a still glow over the room, no cry or shiver of
pain to show how his coming broke open the old wound. She smiled even,
when he leaned against the window looking, with a careless welcome.

Holmes stopped, confounded. It did not suit him,--this. If you know a
man's nature, you comprehend why. The bitterest reproach or a proud
contempt would have been less galling than this gentle indifference. His
hold had slipped from off the woman, he believed. A moment before he had
remembered how he had held her in his arms, touched her cold lips, and
then flung her off,--he had remembered it, his every nerve shrinking
with remorse and unutterable tenderness: now--! The utter quiet of her
face told more than words could do. She did not love him; he was nothing
to her. Then love was a lie. A moment before he could have