Wondering at an abandonment which bespoke a grief too great for all further concealment, I glanced again at Nixon. He had paused in the middle of the staircase and was looking back in a dubious way denoting hesitation. But as the full force of the tragic scene above made itself felt in his slow mind, he showed a disposition to escape and tremblingly continued his descent. He was nearly upon me when he caught my eye. A glare awoke in his, and seeing his right arm rise threateningly, I thought he would certainly strike me. But he slid by without doing so. What did it mean? Oh, what did it all mean? CHAPTER XX. EXPLANATION Determined to know the cause of Mrs. Packard’s anguish, if not of Nixon’s unprovoked anger against myself, I caught him back as he was passing me and peremptorily demanded: “What message did you carry to Mrs. Packard to throw her into such a state as this? Answer! I am in this house to protect her against all such disturbances. What did you tell her?” “Nothing.” Sullenness itself in the tone. “Nothing? and you were sent on an errand? Didn’t you fulfil it?” “Yes.” “And didn’t tell her what you learned?” “No.” “Why?” “She didn’t give me the chance.” “Oh!” “I know it sounds queer, Miss, but it’s true. She didn’t give me a chance to talk.” He muttered the final sentence. Indeed, all that we had said until now had been in a subdued tone, but now my voice unconsciously rose. “You found Mr. Steele?” “No, Miss, he was not at home.” “But they told you where to look for him?” “No. His landlady thinks he is dead. He has queer spells, and some one had sent her word about a man, handsome like him, who was found dead at Hudson Three Corners last night. Mr. Steele told her he was going over to Hudson Three Corners. She has sent to see if the dead man is he.” “The dead man!” Who spoke? Not Mrs. Packard! Surely that voice was another’s. Yet we both looked up to see: The sight which met our eyes was astonishing, appalling. She had let her baby slip to the floor and had advanced to the stairs, where she stood, clutching at the rail, looking down upon us, with a joy in her face matching the unholy elation we could still hear ringing in that word “dead.” Such a look might have leaped to life in the eyes of the Medusa when she turned her beauty upon her foredoomed victims. “Dead!” came again in ringing repetition from Mrs. Packard’s lips, every fiber in her tense form quivering and the gleam of hope shining brighter and brighter in her countenance. “No, not dead!” Then while Nixon trembled and succumbed inwardly to this spectacle of a gentle-hearted woman transformed by some secret and overwhelming emotion into an image of vindictive delight, her hands left the stair-rail and flew straight up over her head in the transcendent gesture which only the greatest crises in life call forth, and she exclaimed with awe-inspiring emphasis: “God could not have been so merciful!”