t washes clean man's very soul
And makes it like an angel, whole.

Simple words, but Daniel read them in the light of a full experience,
dipped his hands in the basin, and rubbed them over his eyes drunk with
sleep; then casting one more glance at his mother's house, he turned in
the direction of the road leading away from the town.

Out in the fields it was too damp for him to lie down to rest. Near an
isolated farm house he found a hay rick, went up to it, and lay down.

VI

Every time Eleanore looked at Daniel her heart was filled with the same
anxiety. She did not understand him; she could not comprehend a single
one of his movements. Such joy as she had arose from meditation on the
past.

He did not seem to be able to recall her. One word, any word, from him
would have relieved her of her anguish; but he spoke to her precisely as
he spoke to Philippina or to Frau Kuett, the woman who came in to do the
housework.

It was bad enough to live with Philippina, to feel the incessant hatred
of this secretive person; to suspect that she knew things that would not
stand the light of day. But to see the child handed over to her, treated
by her as though it were her own and guarded by her with a jealousy that
made her face wrinkle with rage if Eleanore presumed to stay with it for
as much as five minutes, this was infinitely worse.

It was bad enough to have to accept with filial obedience the society of
the speechless old father who spent his days and nights in his own
mysterious way, striving without peace of any kind to reach an unknown
goal. This made it hard for Eleanore. It was spooky in the rooms
upstairs, and equally spooky in the ones downstairs. Eleanore dreaded
the coming winter. At times she felt that her own voice had an unreal
sound, and that her most commonplace remark echoed with the gloom of
unhappy premonitions.

She sought refuge in the old pictures of her longings--southern
landscapes with groves and statues and a sea of supernatural blue. But
she was too mature to find enduring satisfaction in empty dreams; she
preferred, and felt it were better, to forget her grief in the
distractions of hard work. It was not until the pen fell from her hand,
weighed down with distress at the thought of so many unadorned and
unrelieved hours, that something drew her back into the realm of spirits
and visions. And then it was that she sought support, that she
endeavoured t