at he never knew whether he was in heaven or hell. It was
beautiful--and dreadful--and wonderful--and exquisite--oh, so
exquisite. Mortal love could never be so exquisite. He had never lived
before--now he lived in every fibre of his being.

He was glad Aunt Catherine did not worry him with questions. He had
feared she would. But she never asked any questions now and she was
afraid of Roger, as she had been afraid of his uncle. She dared not
ask questions. It was a thing that must not be tampered with. Who knew
what she might hear if she asked him questions? She was very unhappy.
Something dreadful had happened to her poor boy--he had been bewitched
by that hussy--he would die as his uncle had died.

"Mebbe it's best," she muttered. "He's the last of the Temples, so
mebbe she'll rest in her grave when she's killed 'em all. I dunno what
she's sich a spite at _them_ for--there'd be more sense if she'd haunt
the Mortons, seein' as a Morton killed her. Well, I'm mighty old and
tired and worn out. It don't seem that it's been much use, the way
I've slaved and fussed to bring that b'y up and keep things together
for him--and now the ghost's got him. I might as well have let him die
when he was a sickly baby."

If this had been said to Roger he would have retorted that it was
worthwhile to have lived long enough to feel what he was feeling now.
He would not have missed it for a score of other men's lives. He had
drunk of some immortal wine and was as a god. Even if she never came
again, he had seen her once, and she had taught him life's great
secret in that one unforgettable exchange of eyes. She was his--his in
spite of his ugliness and his crooked shoulder. No man could ever take
her from him.

But she did come again. One evening, when the darkening grove was full
of magic in the light of the rising yellow moon shining across the
level field, Roger sat on the big boulder by the grave. The evening
was very still; there was no sound save the echoes of noisy laughter
that seemed to come up from the bay shore--drunken fishermen, likely
as not. Roger resented the intrusion of such a sound in such a
place--it was a sacrilege. When he came here to dream of her, only the
loveliest of muted sounds should be heard--the faintest whisper of
trees, the half-heard, half-felt moan of surf, the airiest sigh of
wind. He never read Wordsworth now or any other book. He only sat
there and thought of her, his great eyes alight, his pale fac