The excursion, from an easily imagined, matter-of-fact daylight possibility, had been growing gradually a thing of the dark, unknown, fantastic. A faint remnant of the fading light remained in the west, vanishing as they looked at it. Above the treetops a pale moon hung high; there seemed nothing to connect them with civilization but that iron track curved out of sight. The quarter of a mile prolonged itself indefinitely, with that strangely eternal effect of the unknown; yet the big iron gates were reached at last, showing a long winding drive within. It was here that Eugene Larue had built a house for his bride, living in it these summers when she was away, alone among his kind, a man who must confess tacitly before the world that he was unable to make his wife care for him—a darkened, desolate, lonely life, as dark and as desolate as this house seemed now. An undefined dread possessed Dosia, though Lois spoke confidently: “The walk has not really been very long. We’ll probably drive back. It’s odd that there are no lights, but perhaps he is sitting outside. Ah, there’s a light!” Yet, as she spoke, the light left the window and hung on the cornice above—it was the moon and not a lamp that had made it. They ascended the piazza steps; there was no one there. “There is a knocker at the front door,” said Lois. She pounded, and the noise vibrated terrifyingly through the stillness. At the same instant a scraping on the gravel walk behind them made them turn. It was the boy on the bicycle, who, having sped back to them, was wheeling around at the moment that he might lose no impetus in retracing his way, while he leaned over to call: “Mr. Larue ain’t there. The woman who closed up the house told me he had a cable from his wife, and he sailed for Europe this afternoon. She says, do you want the key?” “No,” said Lois, and the messenger once more disappeared. “I wish he had waited until we could have asked him some questions,” said Dosia, vexed. “Don’t let’s stay here; it’s too dark and too dreadfully lonely under these trees. We had better get back to the station and wait for the train.” “I suppose so,” said Lois drearily. This, then, was the end of her exaltation—for this she had passionately nerved herself! There was to be neither the warmth of instant comprehension of her errand, nor the frank giving of aid when necessity had been pleaded; there was nothing. She shifted the baby over to the other shoulder, and they retraced their way, which now seemed familiar and short. There was, at any rate, a light on a tall pole in front of the little station, although the station itself was deserted; they seated themselves on the bench under it to wait. The train was not scheduled for nearly an hour yet. The watch that Lois carried showed that it was a quarter to nine. “Oh, if I could only fly back!” she groaned. “I don’t see how I can wait—I don’t see how I can wait! Oh, why did I come?”