Take my poor witness. There is one clue, one only--_goodness_--_the
surrendered will_. Everything is there--all faith--all religion--all
hope for rich or poor.--Whether we feel our way through consciously to
the Will--that asks our will--matters little. Aldous and I have differed
much on this--in words--never at heart! I could use words, symbols he
cannot--and they have given me peace. But half my best life I owe to
him."

At this he made a long pause--but, still, through that weak grasp,
refusing to let her go--till all was said. Day was almost gone; the
stars had come out over the purple dusk of the park.

"That Will--we reach--through duty and pain," he whispered at last, so
faintly she could hardly hear him, "is the root, the source. It leads us
in living--it--carries us in death. But our weakness and vagueness--want
help--want the human life and voice--to lean on--to drink from. We
Christians--are orphans--without Christ! There again--what does it
matter what we think--_about_ him--if only we think--_of_ him. In _one_
such life are all mysteries, and all knowledge--and our fathers have
chosen for us--"

The insistent voice sank lower and lower into final silence--though the
lips still moved. The eyelids too fell. Miss Hallin and the nurse came
in. Marcella rose and stood for one passionate instant looking down upon
him. Then, with a pressure of the hand to the sister beside her, she
stole out. Her one prayer was that she might see and meet no one. So
soft was her step that even the watching Aldous did not hear her. She
lifted the heavy latch of the outer door without the smallest noise, and
found herself alone in the starlight.

* * * * *

After Marcella left him, Hallin remained for some hours in what seemed
to those about him a feverish trance. He did not sleep, but he showed no
sign of responsive consciousness. In reality his mind all through was
full of the most vivid though incoherent images and sensations. But he
could no longer distinguish between them and the figures and movements
of the real people in his room. Each passed into and intermingled with
the other. In some vague, eager way he seemed all the time to be waiting
or seeking for Aldous. There was the haunting impression of some word to
say--some final thing to do--which would not let him rest. But something
seemed always to imprison him, to hold him back, and the veil between
him and the real Aldous watching besi