He looked at me strangely for a moment, then at the books in his two hands, as if doubtful about accepting them without further explanation on my part. "Good night," I said again, smiling at his perplexity. "I suppose it must be good night to one part of you, the corporal, at least; but not to this other," he said, with an answering smile. "Who knows but that I may say good morning to this?"--indicating the journal--"I shall not sleep until I have read it. So good night to this part of you standing before me--and thanks for giving this other part of yourself into my hands." For the fraction of a minute I hesitated to go. It was so pleasant standing there on the threshold of the room I had furnished for him--the room that found favor with every one who entered it; so pleasant to know that he and I were alone there together with the intimate recollection of the afternoon in the forest between us. I had to exercise all my fortitude of common sense to rescue me from overdoing things, from lingering or entering. I beat a hurried retreat through the living-room. I knew that he was still standing on the threshold, for the flood of light from the office was undimmed. The door must have been open when I reached the upper landing on the stairs; then, in the perfect quiet of the darkened house, I heard him shut it--so shutting himself in with that other part of me. I wondered what he would think of that intangible presence? Long after I was in bed I could not sleep. Was he reading it through by course, or dipping into it here and there as I did on that night nine months ago? Would he, could he, placed as he was, understand something of my struggle? I lost myself in conjecture. I opened my door a little way, for a "cross draft", I said to myself, so lying gently; in reality it was to enable me to hear when Mr. Ewart should come up to his room. I listened for some sound. I heard nothing but the indefinite murmur of summer-night woodsy whisperings. The kitchen clock struck the time for four successive hours--and then there was a faint heralding of dawn. At three the woods showed dark against the sky. My straining ears caught the sound of a door closing somewhere about the house. I heard the soft pattering of the dogs running to and fro without it--then silence, broken only by a cock crowing lustily out beyond the barns. He had gone out, and he had not come upstairs. Of the latter I made sure when I rose, sleepy and heavy-eyed, at seven that June morning, and looked into the wide open door of his room in passing. He had not used it.