In the dining room the messenger was waiting. The messenger had arrived, in the clear cold of the night, from a drive across the Caledonia hills, and some one had sent him to that deserted room to warm himself. But Allen found him breathing on his fingers and staring out the frosty window into the dark. It was Jacob Ernestine, brother to the woman who had brought up Allen and had been kind to him when nobody else in the world was kind. For years Sarah Ernestine had been "West"--and with that awful inarticulacy of her class, mere distance had become an impassable gulf and the Silence had taken her. Allen had not even known that she meant to return. And now, Jacob told him, she was here, at his own home back in the hills--Sarah and a child, a little stray boy, whom she had found and befriended as she had once befriended Allen. And she was dying. "She didn't get your letter, I guess," the old man said, "'bout gettin' married. She come to-day, so sick she couldn't hold her head up. I see she didn't know nothin' 'bout your doin's. I didn't let her know. I jus' drove in, like split, to tell you, when the doctor went. He says she can't--she won't ... till mornin'. I thought," he apologized wistfully, "ye'd want to know, anyways, so I jus' drove in." "That was all right," Allen said. "You done right, Jacob." Then he stood still for a moment, looking down at the bright figures of the carpet. Jacob lived twelve miles back in the hills. "How'd you come?" Allen asked him briefly. "I've got the new cutter," the old man answered, with a touch of eager pride. "I'll drive ye." Then some one in the parlour caught sight of the bridegroom, and they all called to him and came where he was, besieging him with good-natured, trivial talk. The old man waited, looking out the window into the dark. He had known them all since they were children, and their merrymaking did not impress him as wholly real. Neither, for that matter, did Allen's wedding. Besides, his own sister was dying--somehow putting an end to the time when he and she had been at home together. That was all he had thought of during his drive to town, and hardly at all of Allen and his wedding. He waited patiently now while Allen got the wedding guests back to the parlour, and then slipped away from them, and came through the dining room to the stair door. "Stay there a minute," Allen bade him shortly, and went back to the upper floor and to Chris's door again. It was her mother who answered his summons this time, and Allen's manner and face checked her words. Before he had done telling her what had happened, Chris herself was on the threshold, already in sober brown, as one who has put aside rainbows and entered on life. She had a little brown hat in one hand, and for the other hand he groped out and held it while he told her, as well as he could. "I guess I've got to go, Chrissie," he ended miserably. She met his eyes, her own soft with sympathy for the plight of the other woman.