s
quiet face, and with it was an expression he had never seen, a faint
wonder of relief, which suggested peace.

How strange to look upon Blair and find him no longer responsive!
Something splendid, loyal, generous, loving had passed away. Gone was
the vital spark that had quickened and glowed to noble thoughts; gone
was the strength that had been weakness; gone the quick, nervous,
high-strung spirit; gone the love that had no recompense. The drawn
face told of physical suffering. Hard Blair had found the world,
bitter the reward of the soldier, wretched the unholy worship of
money and luxury, vain and hollow mockery the home of his boyhood.

Lane went down the path and out of the gate. He had faint perceptions
of the dark trees along the road. He came to a little pine grove. It
was very quiet. There was a hum of insects, and the familiar, sad,
ever-present swishing of the wind through the trees. He listened to
its soft moan, and it eased the intensity of his feelings. This
emotion was new to him. Death, however, had touched him more than
once. Well he remembered his stunned faculties, the unintelligible
mystery, the awe and the grief consequent on the death of his first
soldier comrade in France. But this was different; it was a strange
disturbance of his heart. Oppression began to weight him down, and a
nameless fear.

He had to cross the river on his way home to the cottage. In the
middle of the bridge he halted to watch the sliding flood go over the
dam, to see the yellow turgid threshing of waves below. The mystic
voices that had always assailed his ears were now roaring. They had a
message for him. It was death. Had he not just looked upon the tragic
face of his comrade? Out over the tumbling waters Lane's strained gaze
swept, up and down, to and fro, while the agony in his heart reached
its height. The tumult of the flood resembled his soul. He spent an
hour there, then turned slowly homeward.

He stopped at the cottage gate. It was now almost dark. The evening
star, lonely and radiant, peeped over the black hill. With some
strange working at his heart, with some strange presence felt, Lane
gazed at the brilliant star. How often had he watched it! Out there in
the gloom somewhere, perhaps near at hand, had lurked the grim enemy
waiting for Blair, that now might be waiting for him. He trembled. The
old morbidness knocked at his heart. He shivered again and fought
against something intangible. The old convicti