he gravel to the street, in a maze
of mental confusion. When he reached the sidewalk, under the familiar
elms, he paused, and made a definite effort to pull his thoughts
together, and take stock of what had happened, of what was going to
happen; but the thing baffled him. It was as if some drug had stupefied
his faculties.

He began to walk, and gradually saw that what he was thinking about was
the fact of Celia's departure for New York that evening. He stared
at this fact, at first in its nakedness, then clothed with reassuring
suggestions that this was no doubt a trip she very often made. There was
a blind sense of comfort in this idea, and he rested himself upon it.
Yes, of course, she travelled a great deal. New York must be as familiar
to her as Octavius was to him. Her going there now was quite a matter of
course--the most natural thing in the world.

Then there burst suddenly uppermost in his mind the other fact--that
Father Forbes was also going to New York that evening. The two things
spindled upward, side by side, yet separately, in his mental vision;
then they twisted and twined themselves together. He followed their
convolutions miserably, walking as if his eyes were shut.

In slow fashion matters defined and arranged themselves before him.
The process of tracing their sequence was all torture, but there was no
possibility, no notion, of shirking any detail of the pain. The priest
had spoken of his efforts to persuade Celia to go away for a few days,
for rest and change of air and scene. He must have known only too well
that she was going, but of that he had been careful to drop no hint. The
possibility of accident was too slight to be worth considering. People
on such intimate terms as Celia and the priest--people with such
facilities for seeing each other whenever they desired--did not find
themselves on the same train of cars, with the same long journey in
view, by mere chance.

Theron walked until dusk began to close in upon the autumn day. It grew
colder, as he turned his face homeward. He wondered if it would freeze
again over-night, and then remembered the shrivelled flowers in his
wife's garden. For a moment they shaped themselves in a picture before
his mind's eye; he saw their blackened foliage, their sicklied, drooping
stalks, and wilted blooms, and as he looked, they restored themselves to
the vigor and grace and richness of color of summer-time, as vividly as
if they had been painted on a ca