The quarter of a mile prolonged itself indefinitely, with that strangely eternal effect of the unknown; yet the big iron gates were reached at last, showing a long winding drive within. It was here that Eugene Larue had built a house for his bride, living in it these summers when she was away, alone among his kind, a man who must confess tacitly before the world that he was unable to make his wife care for him--a darkened, desolate, lonely life, as dark and as desolate as this house seemed now. An undefined dread possessed Dosia, though Lois spoke confidently: "The walk has not really been very long. We'll probably drive back. It's odd that there are no lights, but perhaps he is sitting outside. Ah, there's a light!" Yet, as she spoke, the light left the window and hung on the cornice above--it was the moon, and not a lamp, that had made it. They ascended the piazza steps; there was no one there. "There is a knocker at the front door," said Lois. She pounded, and the house vibrated terrifyingly through the stillness. At the same instant a scraping on the gravel walk behind them made them turn. It was the boy on the bicycle, who had sped back to them. "Mr. Larue ain't there," he called. "The woman who closed up the house told me he had a cable from his wife, and he sailed for Europe this afternoon. She says, do you want the key?" "No," said Lois, and the messenger once more disappeared. [Illustration: "'THEY'LL GET FULL OF EARTH AGAIN,' SHE PROTESTED"] This, then, was the end of her exaltation--for this she had passionately nerved herself! There was to be neither the warmth of instant comprehension of her errand nor the frank giving of aid when necessity had been pleaded; there was nothing. She shifted the baby over to the other shoulder, and they retraced their way, which now seemed familiar and short. There was, at any rate, a light on a tall pole in front of the little station, although the station itself was deserted; they seated themselves on the bench under it to wait. The train was not scheduled for nearly an hour yet. "Oh, if I could only fly back!" Lois groaned. "I don't see how I can wait--I don't see how I can wait! Oh, why did I come?" "Perhaps there is a train before the one you spoke of," said Dosia, with the terribly self-accusing feeling now that she ought to have prevented the expedition at the beginning. She got up to go into the little box of a house, in search of a time-table. As she passed the tall post that held the light, she saw tacked on it a paper; and read aloud the words written on it below the date: NOTICE NO TRAINS WILL RUN ON THIS ROAD TO-NIGHT AFTER 8.30 P.M. ON ACCOUNT OF REPAIRS Dosia and Lois looked at each other with the blankness of despair--the frantic, forlornly heroic impulse, uncalculating of circumstances, now showed itself against them in all its piteous woman-folly. XXVII