lancholy disaster of the wind.
Perhaps it was the look of Mate Snow's back as he passed me, panting on
the steps, his head bowed with his solemn and triumphant stewardship.
But all of a sudden I hated him, this righteous man. He had so many
things, and Minister Malden had nothing--nothing but the Chinaman's
soul--and he was going to try and get that too.

I had to find Minister Malden, and right away. But where _was_ he, and
on prayer-meeting night too? My mind skipped back. The "Wilderness."

I was already ducking along the Court to reconnoiter the Pillar House,
black and silent beyond the box-trees. And then I put my hands in my
pockets, my ardor dimmed by the look of that vacant, staring face. What
was I, a boy of thirteen, against that house? I could knock at the door,
to be sure, as the minister had done that other night. Yes; but when I
stood, soft-footed, on the porch, the thought that Sympathy Gibbs might
open it suddenly and find me there sent the hands back again into the
sanctuary of my pockets. What did I know of her? What did any one know
of her? To be confronted by her, suddenly, in the dark behind a green
door--I tiptoed down the steps.

If only there were a cranny of light somewhere in the dead place! I
began to prowl around the yard, feeling adventurous enough, you may
believe, for no boy had ever scouted that bit of Urkey land before. And
I did find a light, beneath a drawn shade in the rear. Approaching as
stealthily as a red Indian, I put one large, round eye to the aperture.

If I had expected a melodramatic tableau, I was disappointed. I had
always figured the inside of the Pillar House as full of treasures, for
they told tales of the old whaler's wealth. My prying eyes found it
bare, like a deserted house gutted by seasons of tramps. A little fire
of twigs and a broken butter-box on the hearth made a pathetic shift at
domestic cheer. Minister Malden sat at one side of it, his back to me,
his face half-buried in his hands. Little Hope Gibbs played quietly on
the floor, building pig-pens with a box of matches, a sober, fire-lined
shade. Sympathy Gibbs was not in the picture, but I heard her voice
after a moment, coming out from an invisible corner.

"How much do you want this time, Will?"

"Want?" There was an anguished protest in the man's cry.

"Need, then." The voice was softer.

The minister's face dropped back in his hands, and after a moment the
words came out between his tight fingers