een from this point on the road--there must be some mistake. Perhaps
just another step would bring it into view!

And then, as he moved forward, something cold gripped at Jean's heart.
There was no mistake--the light was out for the first time in fourteen
years! The light that old Gaston had never failed to burn since the
night his brother died, the light that had become a part of the man
himself--was out! Was he ill--sick? Why, then, had Marie-Louise not
lighted it? She had done it before, often and often before. But now
neither one nor the other had lighted it, and they, just the two of
them, were the only occupants of the house--Marie-Louise and her old
uncle. Just the two of them--and the light was out!

Jean was running now, smashing his way along the road through the
clayey mud and water, splashing it to his knees, buffeting against the
wind; and, with every step, the sense of dread that had settled upon
him grew heavier. It was no ordinary thing this! Old Gaston would
have lighted the lamp while there remained strength in his body to do
it; it was a sacred trust that he had imposed upon himself which had
grown more inviolable as the years had crept upon him and he had grown
older. It brought fear to Jean, and the greater stab at the thought of
Marie-Louise. Things were wrong--and what was wrong with one was wrong
with both. Was it not Marie-Louise who polished the great lamp chimney
so zealously every morning and filled the big, dinted brass bowl of the
lamp with oil; and was it not Marie-Louise who watched with
affectionate understanding each evening as her uncle lighted it?

A shadowy mass, the house, loomed suddenly out of the darkness before
him. It seemed to give him added speed, and in another moment he was
at the door--and the door was open, wide open, blown inward with the
wind.

"Marie-Louise!" he shouted, as he rushed inside. "Gaston! Gaston!"
And again: "Marie-Louise!"

There was no answer--no sound but the shriek of wind, the groaning of
the house timbers in travail with the storm. He pushed the door shut
behind him, and something like a sob came from Jean's lips--and then he
shouted once more.

Still there was no answer.

He felt his way to the kitchen, and across the kitchen to the shelf by
the rear wall, found a candle, and lighted it. He held the flame above
his head, sweeping the light about him, and, discovering nothing, ran
back into the front room--and, with a low cry,