Supper over, they went into the parlor that was opposite the dining room, and was no more parlor than library. It stretched around, a big room with old pictures, old furniture, with books. A fire flamed and sang. They sat in the firelight, Richard Linden on one side of the hearth and Marget on the other, and Miss Darcy beside the latter. Still there was talk. The visitor would have gathered where they stood on questions of the day, then suddenly saw that they stood all round and through, and that the day to them was so old and young that it included yesterday and to-morrow. That being so, their solutions were not always those currently offered. She also found that though they talked they were not talkative. With them conversation became a rhythmic thing--tranquil pause, deep retirement, then again the word. And it startled her almost, how completely they were one. When they had sat by the fire an hour Marget, rising, put violin music upon a victrola. Hafitz played to them a Hebrew melody; Kreisler played, and Maud Powell. The flames danced, the world heightened. Then, one after the other, came three songs, and between each, as between the violin pieces, they watched the fire, and the forest and the night wind were felt around. "Oh, that we two were maying!" The song ended, the fire burned, they heard the river, the forest was all around. A man's voice was lifted. "Oh, that I knew where I might find Him, that I might come into His Presence!" Again the wide and deep pause, and then the third song. "And the world shall go up with a shout unto God." Marget shut the victrola. Again they sat in that quiet. It was systole and diastole, it was in and out, and inexpressibly it rested! And that was what she wanted, rest. Marget lighted a lamp that stood upon the table. Linden said, "Hadn't you rather not read, to-night?" "No. We won't read long." He turned to the visitor. "Do you mind listening?" Miss Darcy was glad to listen. Marget began to read. Her old teacher remembered that she had read well twenty years ago. She read better now. The book was Lafcadio Hearn's _West Indies_. "We travel so," said Linden. "We take a right journeyer and journey with him." The fire flickered, then seemed to pass into actual fire of sun. They were in Martinique, under Pelée, in Saint Pierre, in Grand Anse. Again she was startled to feel how real it was. She touched, she knew, the people of Martinique.