hutters
that enclosed the outer door, and waited in a tremor of expectation:
there was no response. Again I rapped, and again waited in vain for a
reply.

The shadows deepened in the grove; a thin light sifted down through
the leaves and fell upon the doorstep in pale disks that seemed to
tremble with agitation and suspense. I grew uneasy, and feared it was
not wise of me to have come without announcement, and my heart beat
heavily. I walked nervously to the side of the house and glanced in at
the deep bow-window; a shadow crossed the room: it was Ellen's shadow,
and unchanged, thank God! I knew she would not change, for she was one
whom time wearied not and fear fretted not, but to whom all things
were alike welcome, inasmuch as they came from the Hand that can work
no ill.

I returned to the study-door and rapped again, and then grew suddenly
much excited: I almost wished I had not summoned her so soon, but
already I heard her step upon the carpet, her hand on the latch and
the shutters swung apart. I strove to calm myself and ask carelessly
if she were at home, when I thought I saw a difference in the form and
face before me: they were so like Ellen's, but not hers. Had it been
in my power to do so, I would have turned at that moment and gone out
into the world without questioning any one: I would gladly have
avoided any revelation of ill that might have befallen that
household, and gone on as before, thinking it was well with them. But
it was too late: at the same instant we recognized one another.

"Is it Emma?" I asked fearfully.

"You are not--"

Ah, yes, it was he who had promised all these years to come, and had
come at last!

Then she added, "You have come too late: Ellen left us one week ago."

I knew what that meant: it was the leaving that takes all along with
it, and there remains nothing but a memory instead. It was the leaving
that lays bare the heart of hearts, and strikes blind and dumb the
agonized soul--the leaving and the leave-taking that is all
bitterness, call it by what name you will--that makes weak, the strong
and confounds the wise, and strikes terror to the breast of stone--the
leaving which is the leaving off of everything that is near and dear
and familiar, and the taking on of all that is new and strange--Death!
Death! at the thought of which even the Son of God faltered and cried,
"If it be possible let this cup pass from Me," alone in that wild
night in the garden, with watchi