Passing in her room, Theodosia observed that she had removed Conway’s picture from her shelf although she scarcely remembered the act. It had been put into a box of photographs, taken up without passion and slipped inside the cover of the box at some casual moment between coming and going. She laughed once a swift, cruel laughter that bent downward the corners of her mouth at the spectacle of two women quarreling over a dead man, herself one. She discovered that she had no quarrel beyond that induced by friendly loyalty. A suspicion grew in the arising confusion of her thought that her own posthumous passion for Conway had been identified with her lost hope of the fiddle, with her tenderness and self-love that had been shielding her limitation from inner examination and despair. The story remained untrue, but Conway grew remote for her, increasing in remoteness as three days wore away. The shock of the argument opened new vistas down into the dark of her inner thought. She remembered him tenderly, as dead, as wronged in his grave. She thought of him less often. FOUR She ran out of the house at dusk, her fiddle in her hand, fiddle and bow clutched in her fingers. She went rapidly down the street, thinking that she would walk toward the pool, toward the fields, toward some point far beyond the town. She would hurl fiddle-playing into the tops of tall trees and hurl it again into the darkening sky. The ripples of the water would be black and the plowed fields would be black where the dusk had sunk into the autumn furrows. Before the livery stable she saw Stiggins, who stood listlessly, his hands in his pockets, swaying unevenly from one foot to the other. The wind that would have blown the dark water of the pool was shifting the straws and trash of the stable about before Stig’s feet, making a shallow drift in the dirt and refuse. “Come on with me, Stig,” she said. “Come and go with me where I go.” He shuffled uncertainly, hearing her words slowly. “Come on now, Stiggins,” she said.