? But he said, "I think I'll come too. I'm an
old man; I'm less liable to be frightened than those that are further off
the world unseen. It behooves me to think of my own journey there. I've
no cut-and-dry beliefs on the subject. I'll come too; and maybe at the
moment the Lord will put into our heads what to do."

This gave me a little comfort,--more than Simson had given me. To be
clear about the cause of it was not my grand desire. It was another thing
that was in my mind,--my boy. As for the poor soul at the open door, I
had no more doubt, as I have said, of its existence than I had of my own.
It was no ghost to me. I knew the creature, and it was in trouble. That
was my feeling about it, as it was Roland's. To hear it first was a great
shock to my nerves, but not now; a man will get accustomed to anything.
But to do something for it was the great problem; how was I to be
serviceable to a being that was invisible, that was mortal no longer?
"Maybe at the moment the Lord will put it into our heads." This is very
old-fashioned phraseology, and a week before, most likely, I should have
smiled (though always with kindness) at Dr. Moncrieff's credulity; but
there was a great comfort, whether rational or otherwise I cannot say, in
the mere sound of the words.

The road to the station and the village lay through the glen, not by the
ruins; but though the sunshine and the fresh air, and the beauty of the
trees, and the sound of the water were all very soothing to the spirits,
my mind was so full of my own subject that I could not refrain from
turning to the right hand as I got to the top of the glen, and going
straight to the place which I may call the scene of all my thoughts. It
was lying full in the sunshine, like all the rest of the world. The
ruined gable looked due east, and in the present aspect of the sun the
light streamed down through the door-way as our lantern had done,
throwing a flood of light upon the damp grass beyond. There was a strange
suggestion in the open door,--so futile, a kind of emblem of vanity: all
free around, so that you could go where you pleased, and yet that
semblance of an enclosure,--that way of entrance, unnecessary, leading to
nothing. And why any creature should pray and weep to get in--to nothing,
or be kept out--by nothing, you could not dwell upon it, or it made your
brain go round. I remembered, however, what Simson said about the
juniper, with a little smile on my own mind as to th