he creaked gently downstairs. I sprang out of bed and
looked out of the window. Smugg, fully dressed, was gliding along the
path toward Dill's farm. Some impulse--curiosity only, very
likely--made me jump into my trousers, seize a flannel jacket, draw on
a pair of boots, and hastily follow him. When I got outside he was
visible in the moonlight, mounting the path ahead of me. He held on
his way toward the farm, I following. When he reached the yard he
stopped for a moment, and seemed to peer up at the windows, which were
all dark and unresponsive. I stood as quiet as I could, twenty yards
from him, and moved cautiously on again when he turned to the right and
passed through the gate into the meadows.

I saw no signs of Pyrrha. Smugg held on his way across the meadows,
down toward the stream; and suddenly the thought leaped to my brain
that the poor fool meant to drown himself. But I could hardly believe
it. Surely he must merely be taking a desperate lover's ramble, a last
sad visit to the scenes of his silly, irrational infatuation. If I
went up to him, I should look a fool, too; so I hung behind, ready to
turn upon him if need appeared.

He walked down to the very edge of the stream; it ran deep and fast
just here, under a high bank and a row of old willows. Smugg sat down
on the bank, wet though the grass was, and clasped his hands over his
knees. I crouched down a little way behind him, ready and alert. I am
a good swimmer, and I did not doubt my power to pull him out, even if I
were not in time to prevent him jumping in. I saw him rise, look over
the brink, and sit down again. I almost thought I saw him shiver. And
presently, through the stillness of the summer night, came the
strangest, saddest sound; catching my ear as it drifted across the
meadow. Smugg was sobbing, and his sobs--never loud--rose and fell with
the subdued stress of intolerable pain.

Suddenly he leaped up, cried aloud, and flung his hands above his head.
I thought he was gone this time; but he stopped, poised, as it seemed,
over the water, and I heard him cry, "I can't, I can't!" and he sank
down all in a heap on the bank, and fell again to sobbing. I hope
never to see a man--if you can call Smugg a man--like that again.

He sat where he was, and I where I was, till the moon paled and a
distant hint of day discovered us. Then he rose, brushed himself with
his hands, and slunk quickly from the bank. Had he looked anywhere bu