“I told her not to be afraid of you. I told her that if she threw you over you might go altogether to the devil; that she might even be responsible for some crime. I told her that if she married you and was faithful—_if she loved you_—I’d answer for it you’d never go wrong. “She was too frightened to listen to me. Then I told her to think over what I’d said before she did anything. You heard me say that.” “Aye. That’s what I heard you say. I didn’ knaw. I didn’ knaw. I thought you’d set her agen me.” “If you don’t believe me, you can ask her, Steven.” “That’s what she said t’ other night. That you navver coom between her and me. Navver.” “Never,” the phantasm said. “And you don’t hate me now.” “Naw. Naw. I should navver ’a hated ’ee. I should navver ’a laid a finger on thee, ef I’d knawn.” “It’s not your laying fingers on me, it’s your hatred that matters. If that’s done with, the whole thing’s done with.” “Is it? Is it? Ef it was knawn, I should have to hang for it. Maunna I gie mysen oop? Tell me, maun I gie mysen oop?” “You want me to decide that for you?” “Aye. Doan’t gaw,” he said. “Doan’t gaw.” It seemed to him that Mr. Greathead’s phantasm was getting a little thin, as if it couldn’t last more than an instant. He had never so longed for it to go, as he longed now for it to stay and help him. “Well, Steven, any flesh-and-blood man would tell you to go and get hanged to-morrow; that it was no more than your plain duty. And I daresay there are some mean, vindictive spirits even in my world who would say the same, not because _they_ think death important but because they know _you_ do, and want to get even with you that way. “It isn’t _my_ way. I consider this little affair is strictly between ourselves. There isn’t a jury of flesh-and-blood men who would understand it. They all think death so important.” “What do you want me to do, then? Tell me and I’ll do it! Tell me!” He cried it out loud; for Mr. Greathead’s phantasm was getting thinner and thinner; it dwindled and fluttered, like a light going down. Its voice came from somewhere away outside, from the other end of the bridle-path. “Go on living,” it said. “Marry Dorsy.” “I darena’. She doan’ knaw I killed ’ee.” “Oh, yes”—the eyes flickered up, gentle and ironic—“she does. She knew all the time.” And with that the phantasm went out. THE FINDING OF THE ABSOLUTE I Mr. Spalding had gone out into the garden to find peace, and had not found it. He sat there, with hunched shoulders and bowed head, dejected in the spring sunshine. Jerry, the black cat, invited him to play; he stood on his hind legs and danced, and bowed sideways, and waved his forelegs in the air like wings. At any other time his behaviour would have enchanted Mr. Spalding, but now he couldn’t even look at him; he was too miserable.