"Glory be!" said Jethro Rackby, aloud. He hastened his stroke.
Rackby, returning to the gray house with his purchase, peered past its
stone rampart before going in. His eye softened in anticipation of
welcome. Surely no angel half so lovely was ever hidden at the heart of
night.
The kitchen was empty. So were all the rooms of the house, he soon
enough found out. Not a sound but that of the steeple clock on the
kitchen shelf, waddling on at its imperfect gait, loud for a few
seconds, and then low.
Jethro went outside. The stillness rising through the blue dusk was
marvelous, perfect. But an icy misgiving raced through his frame. He
began to walk faster, scanning the ground. At first in his search he did
not call aloud, perhaps because all his intercourse with her had been
silent, as if she were indeed only the voice of conscience in a radiant
guise. And when at length he did cry out, it was only as agony may wring
from the lips a cry to God.
He called on her in broken phrases to come back. Let her only come, she
might be sure of forgiveness. He was an old man now, and asked for
nothing but a corner in her house. Then again, he had here a little
surprise for her. Ah! Had she thought of that? Come; he would not open
the package without a kiss from her finger ends.
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