We went down early next morning, Louise and I in the farmer’s cart, grandfather and the children a little later by the diligence which after all was more comfortable. I turned around many times to imprint upon my memory the picture of that valley, where in solitude I had met so many emotions created by myself, as it were a sort of happiness in which the others had no part. Seated beside me Louise never spoke except to lean toward our old Stephen and ask him gently, “Couldn’t you go a little faster?” “Yes, Miss, we’ll try. Biquette is a little like me, she’s not very young.” He let his whip play around the mare’s flanks, without actually touching her. As we drew nearer to the town my sister’s anxiety increased, and at last affected me. She repeated her contagious “I’m afraid,” and only the fine October sunshine, warming us on our seat, helped me to repel so absurd a presentiment. We reached the gate at last. No one was waiting for us. How many times had I found father at that place, gazing down the road, and as soon as he saw us hailing us with word and gesture, with all the paternal gladness of his heart! I looked up at the window. The usual shadow was not there, behind the curtain, and for the first time I knew that sorrow threatened us all. Mother, as soon as she was informed of our arrival, came down to meet us. Louise threw herself into her arms without a word. By a natural intuition those kindred souls understood one another. I remained apart, determined not to understand, refusing to admit even the possibility of a calamity which would leave me no time to play, at my own convenience, the drama of the return of the prodigal son. Mother came to me: “He talks of you most of all,” she said. “In his delirium he was calling for you.” I was thunderstruck at this pre-eminence. Why did he talk most of me? Why was I his chief preoccupation, and--my mind leaping forward, even while awestricken at the sacrilegious thought,--perhaps his last? “Mamma,” I cried, “it isn’t possible!”