She seemed like nothing but a trusting child. So, she was one with the great poets. So, she was a great poem. He listened to the same music which had moved Isaiah. "The stars,--they seem to be dancing!" she exclaimed. It was to the music of the spheres they were dancing. "You!" he commanded, "you must get away from this house. You must take Ben and get away from here. You must go into a new country. You must begin your life anew and forget all this, forget everything." He paused. "Everything," he repeated. "They tell us that the road is straight and narrow. It's narrow, but it is n't straight. It's crooked and it's winding and it goes through brake and brush. It's a hard road to find and a hard road to keep, even with the polestar over our heads. Maybe, if we were a little above earth--maybe for those who are winged--the road is straight, but we are n't all winged. Some of us have n't even sturdy legs and have to creep. Some of us find our legs only after we are helplessly lost. For down below there is a terrible tangle with things to be gone around, with things to beat down, and always the tangle above our heads. So what wonder that we get lost? What wonder?" "But I am not lost--you are not lost!" "I! I do not matter," he answered slowly. "You must n't let me matter. I come into your life and I go out of your life and I pray that I have done no harm." His words to her were like words caught in a wind. She heard snatches of them, but she was unable to piece them together. "In your new life you must forget even me. We have met in the brush and gone on a little way together. We have helped each other in finding each his true road again. Whether the paths will meet again--whether the paths will meet again--" he repeated as though deep in some new and grander reflection, "why, God knows. If we go on forever, perhaps they will in an aeon or two." He paused to give her an opportunity to say something which he might use as a subject for proceeding farther. His thoughts did n't go very far along any one line. Always he seemed checked by a wall of darkness. But she said nothing. The silence lengthened into a minute. "Do you understand?" he asked gently. "No," she answered frankly. "Then--then perhaps we had better go in," he said, fearing for himself. He led the way through the swinging windows and closed them behind him. In the light he saw that she was shivering. "I 'm afraid I kept you out there too long," he said anxiously. He reached her shawl and placed it about her shoulders. His throat ached. "I haven't hurt you?" "I think you have hurt yourself, somehow." She raised her head a little. Marie was calling. "Good night," he said quickly. "Good night." CHAPTER XX _A Long Night_