y and waiting.

And then again another thought, previously ignored, pierced him like a
sword. If it were true; if Amy herself, poor pretty Amy, had indeed
been there, were indeed near him now, hammering and crying out like a
child shut out at night, against his own skeptical heart ... if it
were indeed true that during those two hours she had had her heart's
desire, and had been one with his very soul, in a manner to which no
earthly union could aspire ... how had he treated her? Even at this
thought a shudder of repulsion ran through him.... It was unnatural,
detestable ... yet how sweet...! What did the Church say of such
things...? But what if religion were wrong, and this indeed were the
satiety of the higher nature of which marriage was but the material
expression...?

The thoughts flew swifter than clouds as he sat there, bewildering,
torturing, beckoning. He made a violent effort. He must be sane, and
face things.

"Mr. Vincent," he cried.

The kindly face turned to him again.

"Mr. Vincent...."

"Hush, I quite understand," said the fatherly voice. "It is a shock, I
know; but Truth is a little shocking sometimes. Wait. I perfectly
understand that you must have time. You must think it all over, and
verify this. You must not commit yourself. But I think you had better
have my address. The ladies are a little too emotional, are they not?
I expect you would sooner come to see me without them."

He laid his card on the little tea-table and stood up.

"Good-night, Mr. Baxter."

Laurie took his hand, and looked for a moment into the kind eyes.
Then the man was gone.

II

That was a little while ago, now, and Laurie sitting over breakfast
had had time to think it out, and by an act of sustained will to
suspend his judgment.

He had come back again to the state I have described--to nervous
interest--no more than that. The terror seemed gone, and certainly the
skepticism seemed gone too. Now he had to face Maggie and his mother,
and to see the grave....

Somehow he had become more accustomed to the idea that there might be
real and solid truth under it all, and familiarity had bred ease. Yet
there was nervousness there too at the thought of going home. There
were moods in which, sitting or walking alone, he passionately desired
it all to be true; other moods in which he was acquiescent; but in
both there was a faint discomfort in the thought of meeting Maggie,
and a certain instinct of propitiation tow