e Mrs. Mosby. As he stood waiting in
the cool, high-ceilinged hall, he was struck by the quiet of the
place. It had an air of waiting. What for? There was a high walnut
hat-rack with a mirror and a marble slab with a card tray on it, and
two high-backed chairs, likewise black walnut and elaborately carved
and atrocious, and in the dim recesses of the stair a horsehair sofa,
all just as they had been for years. They were mute but they seemed
expectant. What could they be waiting for? They were on the outside
edge of things--where life was passing. What could be in store for
them? And yet, as he stood in the hall, with the sound of his
breathing so fine, so distinct in his ears, they seemed to be part of
another presence waiting there with him, a mute presence as to sound,
but in some way eloquent voiced, clamorous to be heard.

A faint rustling came to his ears and then steps, and looking up, he
saw his aunt Loraine coming down the stairs. Her bangles and her
trinkets gave out hushed little clickings and he could hear her
breathing as she came across the carpet to meet him.

"Joseph," she said, and he could see beneath her shell that she was
agitated. "Joseph! What do you suppose can have happened?" Her
toilette, like an ancient ritual observed in every sacred detail,
included her manner and deportment. The voice, the inflection, the
bearing--all went with the ruching and the bangles. Joe had once
wondered if she put them all in the same box when she went to bed.

"I don't know, Aunt Lorry, I'm sure." Catching a haggard look about
her eyes he added more gently: "But I wouldn't be too worried. He's
probably gone to Louisville."

She shook her head, and in spite of herself her voice broke a little.
"He's never done that without telling me."

Joe stood for a moment in thought. "There was no business that would
take him anywhere--business about the farm?"

"No," she said. "Won't you come in and sit down in the parlour? I was
so upset----"

He looked at her kindly. It was perhaps the first time in his
experience he had ever done so. Somehow the shell did not seem so to
cover her. She was such a tight little body, a close-bound fagot of
reserves and inhibitions. She had never exuded the slightest humanity.
And now the shell was cracking and little glints were showing through.
"No, Aunt Lorry," he said. "Not now. There's nothing to be gained by
talking--unless you have any ideas as to where--where he might have
gone."