The great mystics are those who submerge their intellect and senses into night so that their souls emerge before them like the full moon out of the blackness. Every parent, I suppose, must be in part a mystic: for by centering his heart on little children he discerns the pulsating irresistible life of the universe, the past and the future, alpha and omega. At least Jimmie was courteous enough to assure me, when he hugged me for the last time, with sleepy eyes, that my tale was won’erful. "But, oh, Uncle Ranny," he whispered, "say that Alicia will be back to-morrow." I kissed him but made no promise. In the dining room Laura and Randolph were sitting over their books,—Laura grave with an anxious pucker in her white forehead and Randolph with dilated, somewhat fevered eyes. He was obviously thinking rather than reading. But I dared not enter into any more discussion of Alicia’s absence that evening. Only now after many days can I write down the events of the day following my last entry with anything approximating composure; and even now my fingers are tremulous as they hold the pencil. I had risen early, for my sleep had been broken and fitful—as, indeed, how could it have been otherwise? I was parched and burning within, to act, to do something, to range the city, the country—Good God, I thought, can a person like Alicia disappear in that way like a pebble in the sea? But my frenzy of thought, that seemed as if it would burst the poor narrow limits of my skull, produced no definite idea. I lashed against the bars of the brain like a beast in its cage. I entertained no thought of going to the office that morning, but half an hour after I was up, that was the only thought that flooded my mind. There are blessings in a routine of daily labor that those engaged therein can hardly understand. The treadmill, I imagine, leaves the mule but little time for speculation or grief or any other emotions. I was that kind—or, rather that mule let loose—that could find oblivion nowhere better than in the treadmill. For routine can dull despair. It was still half an hour before breakfast when my nephew Randolph came clattering down the stairs, meticulously dressed, though somewhat wild-eyed. He gave me the impression of having—he also—slept badly. "Uncle Ranny," he approached me, "are you going to the office this morning?" "Yes, I think I am. Why, Randolph?" "I’d like to go in to town with you—and go round—look around." "What do you mean, my boy?" "Somebody ought to be looking for Alicia all the time—don’t you think so, Uncle Ranny? I’d like to try," and he looked away shamefaced.