He broke off abruptly, and I, my heart throbbing as if it might break, got up and went into my own room. I had not interfered in his affairs. I had done nothing wrong, said nothing to call up such an outburst of passion, and his dreadful anger had terrified me. I went to the window to try and calm myself. I put up the sash and leaned out. The twilight had almost dissolved itself in night, a night so soft and gentle that the very waters, wooed from their troubled toil, ceased their long complaint and slept. The pine trees, slim and black, whispered to each other in their mysterious language with peaceful cadence, telling, perhaps, of the time when they would shed their countless needles. In the west, shining like a harvest sickle, hung the yellow crescent of the new October moon. Trying to still the throbbing in my veins, I watched it grow and change and deepen as it sank, until above the water it poised, a great Moorish sword of blood-red fire, and a long line of vermilion light ran out upon the quiet sea. Then suddenly it was blotted in darkness. The figure of a man obstructed my range of vision. Instantly the dreadful throbbing in my heart leaped up again. I drew back noiselessly from the window. The man, only a few feet distant—I could almost have put out my hand and touched him—stopped, hesitated irresolutely for a moment, turned about as if to see that no one watched him, then with stealthy step went across the open space and began to climb, catching from tree to tree, down the precipitous rocks towards the lake. Once or twice I heard a stone loosen from beneath his feet, and presently I heard the plash of oars in the water, then it died out, and straining my ears I could detect no sound but the quiet, mysterious whisperings of the pines. I laid my head upon the window-sill sick and faint. The figure of the man I had seen was father. Too well I knew now that he was neither tired, nor ill. Why should he have crept down so stealthily over these wild, almost perpendicular rocks to the lake? Why not have gone by the ordinary path through the settlement? Ah, why? Something was wrong—but what? I turned cold and dizzy. I would not, I _dared_ not think. I tried vainly to sleep that night. Haunted by a thousand forebodings, I could not even close my eyes, and it was almost day-break when I heard father come in quietly and go to his room. I never referred again to his ill looks, nor did he, but somehow I could not help thinking that from this time he watched me a little suspiciously. I felt hurt that he imagined I would play the spy upon his actions. Whatever he might do, whatever he might say, he was still my father, and I could not give him up. It was dreadful, those days that followed. It seemed like living upon the verge of a precipice, or that some unseen calamity hung above my head ready to fall at any moment and crush me.