It was late one night in August, and a dead moon was hanging in the south, when, treading the terrace before his house, he saw a shadow moving down the stairway in the hall. At first his racked nerves quivered, but when he found that it was his mother, he went to meet her, exclaiming as he mounted the steps to the veranda, "Why, mother, what is it--is anything wrong?" Though it was past midnight, Mary Barclay was dressed for the day. She stood in the doorway with the dimmed light behind her, a tall, strong woman, straight and gaunt as a Nemesis. "No, John--nothing is wrong--in the house." She walked into the veranda and began as she approached a chair, "Sit down, John; I wish to talk with you." "Well, mother--what is it?" asked the son, as he sat facing her. She paused a moment looking earnestly at his face and replied, "The time has come when we must talk this thing out, John, soul to soul." He shrank from what was coming. His instinct told him to fight away the crisis. He began to palaver, but his mother cut him short, as she exclaimed:-- "Why don't you let Him in, John?" "Let who in?" asked her son. "You know Whom, John Barclay; that was your grandfather speaking then, the old polly foxer. You know, my boy. Don't you remember me bending over the town wash-tub when you were a child, Johnnie? Don't you remember the old song I used to sing--of course you do, child--as I rubbed the clothes on the board: 'Let Him in, He is your friend, let Him in, He is your friend; He will keep you to the end--let--Him--in!' Of course you remember it, boy, and you have been fighting Him with all your might for six months now, and since Jane went, the fight is driving you crazy--can't you see, John?" The son did not reply for a moment, then he said, "Oh, well, mother, that was all right in that day, but--"