ards the bathroom, where Miranda stood, lifting a white
foot. Compressing her lips, Bianca ran downstairs. Startled by his
tale, she would have taken his wet body in her arms; if the ghosts of
innumerable moments had not stood between. So this moment passed too,
and itself became a ghost.

Mr. Stone, greatly to his disgust, had not succeeded in resuming work at
ten o'clock. Failing simply because he could not stand on his legs, he
had announced his intention of waiting until half-past three, when he
should get up, in preparation for the coming of the little girl.
Having refused to see a doctor, or have his temperature taken, it was
impossible to tell precisely what degree of fever he was in. In his
cheeks, just visible over the blankets, there was more colour than
there should have been; and his eyes, fixed on the ceiling, shone with
suspicious brilliancy. To the dismay of Bianca--who sat as far out of
sight as possible, lest he should see her, and fancy that she was doing
him a service--he pursued his thoughts aloud:

"Words--words--they have taken away brotherhood!" Bianca shuddered,
listening to that uncanny sound. "'In those days of words they called
it death--pale death--mors pallida. They saw that word like a gigantic
granite block suspended over them, and slowly coming down. Some,
turning up their faces at the sight, trembled painfully, awaiting
their obliteration. Others, unable, while they still lived, to face the
thought of nothingness, inflated by some spiritual wind, and thinking
always of their individual forms, called out unceasingly that those
selves of theirs would and must survive this word--that in some fashion,
which no man could understand, each self-conscious entity reaccumulated
after distribution. Drunk with this thought, these, too, passed away.
Some waited for it with grim, dry eyes, remarking that the process was
molecular, and thus they also met their so-called death.'"

His voice ceased, and in place of it rose the sound of his tongue
moistening his palate. Bianca, from behind, placed a glass of
barley-water to his lips. He drank it with a slow, clucking noise; then,
seeing that a hand held the glass, said: "Is that you? Are you ready for
me? Follow. 'In those days no one leaped up to meet pale riding Death;
no one saw in her face that she was brotherhood incarnate; no one with
a heart as light as gossamer kissed her feet, and, smiling, passed into
the Universe.'" His voice died away, and w