's
bed, and in imagination he saw the girl lying there white and
unconscious. Suddenly, however, the shadow disappeared. The figure
rose into the light and crossed the room. It was Harriet. She wore
the same gown she had worn an hour before. She stood for a moment in
the light, as if placing something on the mantel-piece, and then
resumed her seat at the table. The shadow was on the wall again. He
looked at it steadily for twenty minutes. His feet had sunk deeper
into the loam and felt wet and cold. Slowly he trudged back through
the lane. Mrs. Floyd had lied to him. The girl was not ill. At the
street corner he stopped. For an instant he was tempted to go to the
hotel and ask Mrs. Floyd if he could see Harriet for a moment, that he
might catch her in another lie, and then and there face her in it, but
he felt too sick at heart. Harriet had not swooned. Mrs. Floyd had
not undressed her and put her to bed. She had made up the story to
excite his sympathy and gain a point. He groaned as he started on
towards Bradley's. Mrs. Floyd had tried to get Bates to marry the
girl, and now was attempting the same thing with him. And why?

At the gate of Bradley's house he stopped. Through the window he saw
Luke and his wife at supper. They had not waited for him. He would
not go in. He could not eat or talk to them. He wanted to be alone to
decide what course to pursue. He crossed the road and plunged into the
densest part of a pine forest. He came to a heap of pine-needles that
the wind had massed together, and sank down on it, hugged his knees to
his breast, and groaned. He wanted to tell his whole story to some
one--any one who would listen and advise him. He could not decide for
himself--his power of reasoning was gone. Suddenly he rose to his feet
and started up the mountain. Taking a short cut, he reached the
Hawkbill road, and, with rapid, swinging strides, began to climb the
mountain.

As he got higher among the craggy peaks, that rose sombre and majestic
in the moonlight, the air grew more rarified and his breath came short.

He could see the few lights of the village scattered here and there in
the dark valley, and hear the clangor of the cast-iron bell at the
little church. It was prayer-meeting night.

After a while he left the main road, and without any reason at all for
so doing, he plunged into the tangle of laurel, rhododendron bushes,
vines, and briers. The soles of his shoes had