At any small
surprise of the senses he would start visibly and
sometimes turn pale, then relapse into a melancholy
apathy deeper than before. I suppose he was what
is called a 'nervous wreck.' As to me, I was younger
then than now--there is much in that. Youth is
Gilead, in which is balm for every wound. Ah, that
I might again dwell in that enchanted land! Un-
acquainted with grief, I knew not how to appraise
my bereavement; I could not rightly estimate the
strength of the stroke.
One night, a few months after the dreadful event,
my father and I walked home from the city. The
full moon was about three hours above the eastern
horizon; the entire countryside had the solemn still-
ness of a summer night; our footfalls and the cease-
less song of the katydids were the only sound, aloof.
Black shadows of bordering trees lay athwart the
road, which, in the short reaches between, gleamed
a ghostly white. As we approached the gate to our
dwelling, whose front was in shadow, and in which
no light shone, my father suddenly stopped and
clutched my arm, saying, hardly above his breath:
'God! God! what is that?'
'I hear nothing,' I replied.
'But see--see!' he said, pointing along the road,
directly ahead.
I said: 'Nothing is there. Come, father, let us go
in--you are ill.'
He had released my arm and was standing rigid
and motionless in the centre of the illuminated road-
way, staring like one bereft of sense.
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