His tone jarred upon Marcella, so sensitive she was for her father’s sake, so wounded in the pride she had once felt in his preëminence. The wound ceased to ache as she noticed the deep attention with which Rathburn regarded the invalid. In truth, Eli Strobe well and hearty was not half the man, in his estimation, that Eli Strobe was with this strange malady, and the contemplation of the perfection of reason could not have so enthralled and invigorated his jaded perceptions as did this forlorn folly of a mental delusion. He made no further allusion to the spectral ringleader, although more than once he turned again and surveyed with his keen professional gaze the constable’s face. In his deft choosing of a subject of discussion, he seemed to experiment with the invalid’s capacities, and Marcella was amazed to note how rationally, with what strong good sense, Eli Strobe talked, reminding her of “dad’s conversation” of yore, in which she had experienced such filial pride. At last the guest rose to go, and she listened, as she stood in the doorway, to the faint footfalls on the hard ground, growing ever fainter as the distance increased,—listened and looked out at the still and solitary night, so white with the moon and the frost in the midst of its normal gloom. So mute it was, so replete with a sense of loneliness. It seemed that not even some belated vigilante could be astir in that desert of dark mountains, and icy white glintings, and profundity of silences. The fear that could but quiver at the thought grew still after a moment, and she became conscious that her grandmother had twice spoken to her. “Marcelly,” cried the irate little dame, “what ails ye ter stan’ thar in the door a-lookin’ out at the moon ez big-eyed ez a ow-_el_, ez ef ye war bound ter watch ter see the man go? I ain’t a-wonderin’ at ye nuther” (sarcastically); “he makes the shortes’ visits o’ enny o’ the fool folks ez kems ter this house. Bein’ ez he air a doctor-man, nex’ time he kems I be a-goin’ ter ax him ef he hain’t got enny lotium ez will brace up a sensible woman’s back ter endure the strain o’ hearin’ a young fool talk fower hour at a stretch. Ye needn’t stan’ thar stare-gazin’ the moon, I tell ye, a-thinkin’ ye look so powerful pritty an’ enticin’, with yer eyes stretched so big an’ shinin’,” becoming suddenly sensible of the ethereal beauty in the girl’s fair face. “Thar’s lots o’ wimmen in this worl’ ez spends thar time lookin’ pritty fur nuthin’. Fur ye mark my words,—ye can’t cut out that n’angel o’ a gal ez brung him the news ’bout the lynchers; he air dead in love with her, else all signs fail!” “Oh,” faltered Marcella, “I ’low ye mus’ be mistaken—’twar jes’—jes’”— “Jes’ what? I reckon I know folks in love whenst I see ’em. Strange ez it may ’pear, I war wunst a fool o’ that kind myself,” she added, with a whimsical pucker of the lips, as she began to cover the fire with the abundant ashes, that it might last till morning.