nding on the terrace--then uncultivated
forest--that runs in front of these windows, he found at last what he
desired. He bought the forest. He bought the windings of the river,
the fields upon its banks, and on the extreme edge of the steep gorge
through which it runs he built the lovely dwelling that to-day is mine.

This place is no ordinary place. It is characteristic in the highest
degree. The house is wonderfully situated, with the ground falling
abruptly in front of it, the river forming almost a horseshoe round it.
The woods are lovely. The garden, curiously, almost wildly, laid out, is
like no other garden I ever saw. And the house, though not old, is full
of little surprises, curiously shaped rooms, remarkable staircases,
quaint recesses. The place is a place to remember. The house is a house
to fix itself in the memory. Nothing that had once lived here could ever
come back and forget that it had been here. Not even an animal--not even
an animal.

I wish I had never gone to that dinnerparty and met the Professor. There
was a horror coming upon me then. He has hastened its steps. He has put
my fears into shape, my vague wondering into words. Why cannot men leave
life alone? Why will they catch it by the throat and wring its secrets
from it? To respect reserve is one of the first instincts of the
gentleman; and life is full of reserve.

It is getting very late. I thought I heard a step in the house just
now. I wonder--I wonder if _she_ is asleep. I wish I knew. Day after
day passed by. My grandmother seemed to be failing, but almost
imperceptibly. She evidently loved to have me near to her. Like most old
dying people, in her mind she frantically clutched at life, that could
give to her nothing more; and I believe she grew to regard me as the
personification of all that was leaving her. My vitality warmed her. She
extended her hands to my flaming hearthfire. She seemed trying to live
in my life, and at length became afraid to let me out of her sight.
One day she said to me, in her quavering, ugly voice--old voices are so
ugly, like hideous echoes:

"Ronald, I could never die while you were in the room. So long as you
are with me, where I can touch you, I shall live."

And she put out her white, corrugated hand, and fondled my warm boy's
hand.

How I longed to push her hand away, and get out into the sunlight and
the air, and hear young voices, the voices of the morning, not of the
twilight, and be away fro