I

I

The girl beat with her hands against the door, whimpering softly as the steady concussions shook the whitewashed planks. The morning sunlight caught her by the shoulders in warm hands and seemed to shake her. She did not pause to listen for any approaching footsteps, but continued to hammer at the wood as though in a half-trance, and but semiconscious of what she was doing. White clouds ballooned upward in the bright blue sky and watched her from a distance. They were snowy-plumaged hawks observing the peregrinations of a lice-like humanity upon a rolling ball of earth and sea. The girl was a faraway mote to their farseeing eyes, a speck of dust without form or meaning. She moaned to herself and shook the door. Dreeme heard her thin voice so broken by suppressed and breathless sobs as he hurried downstairs, turned the key in the rusty grating lock, and flung the door open. She stumbled into the hall, her tear-streaked face lifted like the face of a wounded animal, and lurched against him with a sudden paralysis of knees, clinging tightly to his arm. Dreeme pushed the door shut and half-carried her along the hall to the little study.

“Why Deborah!” he cried. “What is it? Sit down. Shall I get you a glass of water?”

She refused to sit down, but continued to cling to him still whimpering. Her face was streaked with tears and dust, and her mouth shook convulsively. The pupils of her eyes were dilated, and she did not seem to see him.

“What is it?” he repeated. “What is it? You must tell me, you know. What has happened?”

She gazed about the little study in a vague manner, and for a moment appeared to strive for the mastery of her feelings. Her mouth opened and coherent speech seemed about to issue. Then she broke down completely and, relinquishing his arm, dropped to a chair beside the table upon which she buried her face. Dreeme, hearing her unrestrained sobs and noting the convulsive quiver of her pathetically small shoulders, realized that this was better than the stifled whimpering with which she had entered the room. She was giving full vent to her outraged nerves now, letting them run away with her until, tired and exhausted, they would once more be subject to her reason. The young doctor sat down calmly and waited.

Outside the morning moved on leisurely sun-shot feet through the cool lane. Sparkles of light caught at the flawed panes of the windows. In the sky the clouds hovered like white hawks. Birds chirped loudly in the ancient trees, and a creaking wagon drawn by a heavy-hoofed farm-horse protested its way toward the general store. Dreeme listened as the creaking axletree and softly-jingling harness grew fainter and finally died out. He heard the far caw of a crow as it sped in feathery darkness toward some field unguarded by an ungainly scarecrow. It was all peaceful and unvexed, a crystal tide of morning, a time for calmness and not tears. He waited patiently. He inspected the atrocious wallpaper that closed him in from the sun, and cleared his throat with dry humor. The wallpaper designer must have been a practical joker. Finding nothing better to do he drew his watch out and looked at it. The heavy, old-fashioned, silver-cased heirloom blandly announced that it was quarter past seven. He forced it back into his vest pocket, and stroked one freshly-shaven cheek meditatively. He had not slept so well. He⁠ ⁠… had been troubled by dreams. He thought of⁠ ⁠… no, he wouldn’t think of her now. Mrs. Slater would be along with his breakfast soon. He raised his eyes to the ceiling and waited. Flyspecks. Blackened rings of lamp smoke. It was cracked in the corner. That was where the mice nibbled and made little crackling noises during the night. Did they live on wood or plaster?

The girl lifted her head suddenly and pushed back her disheveled hair. Her eyes were like wet violets, a soaked blue so deep as to be astonishing. Dreeme smiled at her gently and said nothing. She looked at him in a surprised manner.

“I feel better,” she announced in a very small voice.

“I’m glad you do,” he replied. “Shall I get you a glass of water now?”

“Please,” she nodded.

When he came back with it she had wiped her tear-stained face with a small handkerchief, smoothed her hair, and brushed part of the dust from her gray dress. She drank the water in slow sips, gazing at him over the top of the tumbler. Dreeme leaned back in his chair and observed her. Curiously enough, although he had seen her but once before she was like an old acquaintance now. It was as though he were sitting in the room with what, in his New England, would be dubbed “family.” A tacit feeling of confidence established itself between them. Her intensely blue eyes, her misty bronze hair, her small mouth and nose, even her thin arms and slender wiry hands, were part and parcel of an old knowledge. It was pleasant to be like this while the mysterious white hawks in the sky hovered so far above them.

“I’m not like this generally,” she informed him as she put the tumbler down. There was a wise and confidential intimation in her voice.

“I know you’re not,” he answered. “You’ve been terribly frightened.”

His statement was almost a question, and the pupils of her eyes dilated again as she nodded assent.

“I’ll tell you all about it directly,” she said.

She was small⁠ ⁠… small. That was his main impression. But intelligent. Wise. He waited with a seeming patience praying fervently that Mrs. Slater would not appear until he had found out the source of Deborah’s trouble. He could guess part of it, but he did not want to let his mind stray too far along the vague pathways of unsubstantiated surmise. The girl closed her eyes and obviously strove to adjust herself in a reasonable manner to the subject which was in her mind. It was patent that she did not know how or where to begin, and that she was fearful of not being able to communicate the essence of her story to Dreeme. She wanted to speak reasonably now. To assure herself, perhaps, of her own rationality. He would help. Like a doctor.

“Begin at the beginning,” suggested Dreeme. She opened her eyes. She said:

“I don’t know how to tell you and make it seem like anything. It’s.⁠ ⁠… It’s more feeling than anything else.”

He nodded sagely, and, after a moment’s hesitation, she began.

“You see I have to do something for my living. Father was killed at the courthouse in Leeminster, and he was all that I had. We lived there⁠ ⁠… Leeminster, I mean⁠ ⁠… and father was a constructor. He built houses. There weren’t many to be built, of course. He was working on the ell of the new courthouse and the men mixed cement on the roof of the front porch. One of the bags was pushed off in some way, and it fell on father. He died in half an hour. That was a month ago. Then I had to close up our house⁠ ⁠… such a little one, sell things, and help finish up father’s business. I had a very good lawyer, Mr. Stopes. Perhaps you knew him?”

Dreeme shook his head.

“Lawyers,” he said, “are out of my line. They never get sick.”

“He was a very good lawyer,” she insisted. “After the estate was settled there was just enough to pay his fee. Then Aunt Slater sent for me. It was only yesterday that I came over. I walked all the way. I thought I should stay here and help Aunt, but it seemed that Mr. Burroughs had heard about me or seen me in Leeminster⁠ ⁠… he preaches there sometimes⁠ ⁠… and he told Aunt that Mrs. Westcott needed somebody to help around the house. I didn’t want to help because I am not a servant, and I told Aunt so, but she said that she couldn’t afford to keep me. I thought that was funny, because, after all, she had sent for me. I’m telling you this because I want to show you that I was feeling bad in my mind anyway, and perhaps exaggerated some of the things that happened later.”

Dreeme nodded. Mrs. Slater was like that. She was a New England aunt.

“I didn’t have to come,” proceeded Deborah. “I might have stayed in Leeminster and taught school. Father was very careful about putting me through my studies. Well, I went over late yesterday afternoon to the Westcott farm with Mr. Burroughs. We walked because he said he thought I would like to see the country. I didn’t like the country, and I didn’t like Mr. Burroughs. He is like the country, dull and ghostly and green and sad. I think I first became afraid and nervous on that walk, for Mr. Burroughs, after we started, never said a word to me. We just plodded along, and he would look at me sideways with his funny eyes. I tried to say something once or twice, but he only nodded. I felt as though I was walking into a nightmare. The Westcott farm seemed terribly dreary to me, and I was frightened as soon as that horrible little boy appeared at the fence-gate.”

“Miles,” said Dreeme.

“Is his name Miles?” asked Deborah. “I didn’t know. He had a great growling dog on a rope, and he let it walk after me up the path. It snarled all the way. He started to say something, but Mr. Burroughs just waved his hand and the boy went off through the bushes. We went into the kitchen and Mrs. Westcott was there. Mr. Burroughs introduced me, and I went right to work helping Mrs. Westcott. There were piles of dishes to wash. After that Mrs. Westcott showed me where I was to sleep and where I was to put my things.”

She paused for a moment and shut her eyes, seeming to revisualize inwardly the appearance of Mrs. Westcott.

“She’s quite beautiful, I think,” Deborah proceeded. “But it is what I would call⁠ ⁠… something frozen-like, you know.”

Dreeme shifted slightly in his chair.

“If you could imagine cold fire, fire that was just like ice, I think that would be Mrs. Westcott,” went on the girl. “She didn’t have much to say to me. She moved around the kitchen like some⁠ ⁠… like some queen, like somebody who didn’t want to be there and didn’t mean to be there very long. Presently she went away with Mr. Burroughs, and I finished up the work in the kitchen and went into the living room. There wasn’t anything to do there, and I kept on into another room that was full of books. It was just like a library, shelves all around, and such tattered books. There wasn’t one that was new. The only thing that I could think of to do was to dust the books. So I found a bit of cloth and started in on them. It would take a lifetime to dust those books. I had removed an armful from one of the shelves and was about to dust the shelf itself when I saw a lot of little dolls in a row against the back of the shelf. They were terribly amusing, and I took two of them out to look at them more closely. One was a tiny man and he had needles stuck in his eyes. The other had a needle thrust into the knee. I pulled it out. It was while I was holding the dolls in my hand that I felt somebody standing in back of me. At first I was afraid to turn around. I was sure that my knees would give way. I put the dolls back, and stood there looking at the shelves. Then something began to turn me, and I faced about, and there stood that awful man in the doorway, with his head thrust forward, and his still eyes watching me with a sort of smile way back in them.”

Deborah paused and thrust a small tongue over her dry underlip.

“I first began to be really frightened then,” she added. “You see, I have nothing to go upon but sensations and intuitions.”

Dreeme sat motionless in his chair, his entire intelligence concentrated upon her story. She said:

“It came over me like waves, and I began to feel like somebody in deep churning waters. There was no reason for it, just something inside of me telling me to be afraid. He stood in the doorway and looked at me, and I stood there unable to move or say a word. I could see the ridges on his head. ‘Who told you to come in here?’ he asked. ‘Go back to the kitchen,’ he added. ‘When I want you to dust the books I’ll tell you so.’ His voice was low and snarling. I don’t know how I got to the door, but I did, and he must have passed me, for just as I was stepping out of the room he shouted, ‘You damned little fool!’ He was standing by the shelves with one of the dolls in his hand.”

Dreeme frowned. Something about wax dolls with pins thrust into them. He had read it somewhere. He could not recall it now. He put the subject away for the time being, and resumed his calm role of auditor.

“Nothing more happened till suppertime,” Deborah was saying. “I stayed in the kitchen and helped with the cooking. Then we all sat down at table. There was Mrs. Westcott, and the boy, and Wagner, the hired man, and myself. Mrs. Westcott wanted to say something to Wagner. I could see it on her mouth and in her eyes. And Wagner wanted to hear what she had to say, for he sat like an attentive bulldog waiting for a caress. But before she could say anything he came out of the library, lurching along in an awkward fashion, for he is lame in one leg, and sat down. None of us spoke then. The dishes were passed in silence. Mrs. Westcott sat with her eyes lowered to her plate, although every now and then she would glance under her long lashes at Wagner, who sat on the edge of his chair with a puzzled expression on his face. He was just like a bulldog that is trying unsuccessfully to comprehend what its master desires it to do. Mr. Westcott saw them every time, and he would smile in the most malevolent manner. That supper was terrible. I thought that it would never end or that I should suddenly scream and run out of the room. Do you know that taut feeling when your nerves seem strained to the breaking point? I was like that. The boy⁠ ⁠… did you say his name was Miles?⁠ ⁠… ate like a greedy little animal. Wagner was puzzled and surly. Mrs. Westcott was terribly excited, although on the surface she was as still as snow. I could sense the fever in her. Mr. Westcott was the only calm person, and his calmness was like the breathlessness that is in the air before an electric storm breaks. You know what I mean. When you can hardly breathe. And I was thinking how terrible it was to be there, and how miserable and frightened I was. How could I stand it? How could I stay there? The silence, it⁠ ⁠… it seemed to crawl around the room, to move like a great lazy snake, to slide under the table and up the backs of the chairs, and across the face of the clock. The air was heavy. Like before a storm, you know. Like.⁠ ⁠…”

She stopped abruptly, plainly at a loss for words to convey the strange nuances of that meal. Dreeme sat uneasily in his chair, dimly conscious that he was involved in this imbroglio of ominous silences. He began to feel like a man sitting at the edge of the crater of a slumbering volcano. Sooner or later it would erupt, and he would be destroyed by unimaginable fiery lavas. He could picture to himself the silence of that supper without the aid of Deborah. Around a table sat a group of wax figures with living eyes. The eyes spoke, but the mouths were speechless. These eyes whispered, laughed, threatened, fought invisible duels. They were glittering assassins moving stealthily toward their defenseless victims. Deborah was a victim. He was a victim. Anyone who blundered into that deathlike circle of wax figures was a victim. Deborah’s voice cut across his brooding. She had given up the attempt to picture the Westcott supper with any degree of vividness. She said:

“After supper, we rose from the table without a word. Wagner hurried away. He went like a ghost. I heard the door close softly behind him. Mr. Westcott heard it, too, for it seemed to be a signal for him to go into his room of books. He said to Mrs. Westcott, ‘Leave me alone now. I’ll see you tomorrow.’ She said, ‘Don’t make a fool of yourself.’ He smiled at that and said, ‘That’s your prerogative.’ Then he went into the library and closed the door behind him. I helped wash dishes. Pretty soon Mr. Burroughs came. He slid into the house humming to himself. He loitered about the kitchen for a while and talked to Mrs. Westcott about what sort of a year it was, and how he was going to preach Leeminster way on Sunday. Mrs. Westcott just laughed in her husky way. ‘Preach!’ she said. ‘You’re an insane humorist, George.’ He smiled, too, and looked at me in that sly still way. ‘Watch out for my little Paschal Lamb,’ he said, nodding at me. Then he went to the door of the library and knocked, and pretty soon he went in, leaving the door ajar. I could hear him talking with Mr. Westcott. I continued to work about the kitchen, but the door that led into the sitting room was open, and so, too, was the door to the library, ajar, I mean. I could hear men’s voices, but it was hard to distinguish the words. I didn’t notice when Mrs. Westcott went away, but when I looked for her to ask her about something, she was gone. Once I heard Mr. Westcott’s voice raised. He cried out, ‘I tell you she’ll do, George. At the place called Dagon.⁠ ⁠…’ Then I heard footsteps coming toward the door. ‘The master⁠ ⁠…’ began Mr. Burroughs, and the door was closed with a slam. I couldn’t distinguish any more words. When I went into the sitting room I could just hear Mr. Burroughs’ voice. It was monotonous, as though he was preaching, and it sounded like some foreign language. Maybe Latin.”

She stopped and looked at the silent attentive figure of Dreeme.

“It doesn’t sound like anything does it?” she asked.

“Go on,” said Dreeme briefly. Queer word, Dagon.

“I’m getting to what really frightened me now,” she said. “All that went before was a mere leading up, a series of nothings that put me in a nervous state of mind. I wanted you to know, though. I went to bed rather early because I was tired. It was a long time before I got to sleep. You know how a strange bed feels, and when one is nervous. But I did get to sleep finally, and I guess I slept pretty heavily. I don’t know how long I slept, but I am sure that I was awakened by three horrible screams. I started up.⁠ ⁠…”

“You heard somebody screaming?” asked Dreeme. She shook her head. She said:

“No, I didn’t hear anything. But I am sure that I was wakened by three screams. I don’t know.⁠ ⁠… I.⁠ ⁠… I sensed the echo of them, I guess. I started up wide awake and half-mad with fright. I knew instantly without looking that the door to my room was open. There was a little moonlight straggling in at the window and when I looked toward the door I could see him standing there. I could see his face very plainly, and the ridges on his skull. He.⁠ ⁠…”

Dreeme uttered a stifled exclamation.

“You mean⁠ ⁠…” he began.

“Yes, yes,” she said, the shadow of fear starting up in her eyes again. “Mr. Westcott was standing in my doorway and looking at me. He was leaning forward a little, his head lowered on his breast, and staring at me from under his eyebrows. The moonlight rippled across his uneven head and his flat nose. His eyes were large and dark and still, with that awful stillness that seems to say so many things. He stood there and stared, and everything seemed to die inside me. The blood paused in my veins, and a queer sort of dizziness came over me. I was conscious of nothing but his eyes, and of an enormous will in his eyes that seemed to but half-reveal itself. I seemed to swoon, to float upward, while his eyes grew into huge circles that swallowed me and the room. Far off, as though from another world, I heard a low voice saying, ‘At Dagon. At Dagon. For the master.’ He did not say that, for his lips never moved, and even if he had spoken I could not have heard him, for my ears were like dead things. It was through his eyes that everything came to me. And it was looking into his eyes, being drowned in his eyes, that I saw.⁠ ⁠…”

For a moment she lost the faculty of speech and lifted a small white frightened face to Dreeme. Her lips fumbled for words, and the young doctor could see them moving dumbly.

“Wait,” he said. “Don’t tell me any more.”

In the back of his mind a faint light was beginning to dawn. It was far away as yet, as far away as those snowy hawks that hovered over the valley. He would have to mount as high as those clouds if he was to see everything spread out like a simple map before him.

“I must,” she said with an effort. “I must try to let you know. It was all in his eyes. An unutterable evil. A concentration of everything that is horrible and bestial in this world, or, for all I know, out of it. His eyes were telling me of all the sins and perversions and horrors that have existed since before the beginning of time, of reptile urges and.⁠ ⁠… I can’t explain it, you see. I do not know how to handle the words. But I saw⁠ ⁠… the horror of time⁠ ⁠… and.⁠ ⁠…”

She could not go on. But she did not sob again. She sat with trance-like eyes and said nothing.

Dreeme was staring at her intently, and, from a half-shocked mind, striving to piece together her stumbling narrative of mingled fears and menaces. Curiously enough he did not doubt the authenticity of her mental fever. This was no mere hysteria, no nightmare. It was as though the hidden facet of an admitted evil had been slowly turned toward him. The faraway light continued to shine in the deepest recesses of his mind. He felt all that she felt as he heard her story, and understood vividly enough the aspect and profoundity of that terror which moved her, and which she conveyed so haltingly. She had sensed something that could not be adequately expressed in words, just as he had sensed something in the community that was beyond the power of speech.

Deborah began to speak again. She said:

“He turned and went out noiselessly, and the door made no sound as it closed behind him. I could hear the clock ticking somewhere. It was the first time I had heard one in that house, and somehow it made the night and the world real again. I could not sleep again. It was too much to expect. I lay there staring at the door for hours, and sure that there was somebody on the other side of it, somebody standing there with his head thrust forward and still eyes that grew as large as moons. It began to grow light, that skimmed-milk-like color that the early cloudy morning has, and I kept saying to myself, ‘I must go away from here. I mustn’t be found here in the morning.’ It was only by a terrific effort of will that I forced myself to get up and dress. I can’t tell you how blinded with panic I was when I pushed the door open. There was no one there. There wasn’t a sound in the house as I crept downstairs and out of the kitchen door. I reached the road and looked back at the house. It squatted there like a dead thing with blind eyes. It couldn’t see me. I began to run then. I ran all the way here. I thought I could hear things running after me, but when I looked back the road was empty. I even thought I heard someone laughing in the air. I came to you first because.⁠ ⁠…”

The door swung open and the small plump figure of Mrs. Slater appeared behind a breakfast tray. Her eyes opened with amazement when she saw the drooping figure of Deborah, but she said nothing until she methodically placed the tray on the table and removed the napkin from the food. Then she turned to the girl, a thin disapproval curling down her mouth.

“Land’s sakes,” she said in a querulous tone. “You’re in town early.”

Deborah gazed from her aunt to Dreeme, a mingled defiance and supplication in her blue eyes.

“I’ve run away,” she said. “I’m not going back. I won’t stay there.”

Mrs. Slater arranged the breakfast plates in a deliberate fashion. Her eyes fluttered as she moved about the table. She said:

“You can’t run away. Girls don’t run away in Marlborough.”

There was no interest in her voice, nothing but a faintly-aggrieved protest.

“She has run away,” remarked Dreeme shortly. “Can’t you see her in front of you?”

Mrs. Slater ignored him. In a voice entirely lacking in curiosity she inquired:

“What was the matter, Deborah?”

“I⁠ ⁠… I was frightened,” replied the girl. “I don’t like that awful place and those awful people.”

She stopped abruptly at that. Dreeme understood that she realized the impossibility of explaining anything to Mrs. Slater. He undertook to fill the gap.

“Deborah is a highly nervous girl,” he said. “It is necessary that she have surroundings that are favorable. A lonely farm and a brutal farmer who peers into one’s bedroom at night, and who is up to the devil knows what, are not the surroundings for her. Speaking as a doctor.⁠ ⁠…”

“Your coffee’s cooling,” said Mrs. Slater. She shifted the sugar-bowl uneasily. Dreeme poured a cup of coffee and handed it to Deborah.

“There’s plenty of breakfast in the house of your relations,” announced Mrs. Slater, the wan ghost of indignation in her voice.

“But not plenty of room,” added Dreeme. He sat down angrily to his breakfast, and proceeded to eat. Mrs. Slater stood looking at her niece.

“You know I would do for you,” she said, “but Walden has about all he can handle with the children. The land’s mighty poor.”

She ignored Dreeme completely. The young doctor visualized a picture of a stoop-shouldered man struggling all day with thin soil that noisy little mouths might be fed. He cultivated a stone and strove to make bread of it. Well, it was no circus. Still.⁠ ⁠…

“You can’t place Deborah where she is frightened and unhappy,” he said.

“Mrs. Westcott is the only neighbor around here who wants somebody,” remarked Mrs. Slater. There was a hopeless and dispirited note in her voice.

Neither Dreeme nor Deborah replied. Mrs. Slater stood by the table stolidly, her eyes fluttering.

“There’s nothing to be frightened of at the Westcott farm,” she added. “Nothing at all.”

Dreeme passed a slice of toast to Deborah. Curious. All his life. He knew she sat that way. Mrs. Slater moved closer to the table.

“I don’t see why you should be unhappy there,” she said. “I don’t see, at all.”

“Well, we’ll talk it over later,” interposed Dreeme. “Let Deborah recover her equanimity.”

“It’s hard on me,” said Mrs. Slater. She stooped to lift an empty plate, and tiny lines rippled across her plump face. It was sagging a bit now. The earth seemed pulling it downward. She was aggrieved at life in general and Deborah in particular. Dreeme she plainly regarded as an interloper, an officious stranger, who thrust himself into affairs that did not concern him. For an instant he was angry. It was hard on her! He opened his mouth to expostulate, even to deliver a long speech on her unkindly attitude, when a measured thumping sounded in the hall leading to the study. It was a rhythmical alternating sound, now loud and then soft, the sound of a man, perhaps, with a wooden leg. A man with a wooden leg or.⁠ ⁠… Before the door swung open Dreeme knew who it was. With calm eyes, therefore, he raised his face to Jeffrey Westcott who stood in the doorway. He said:

“Good morning. You are into town early.”

Westcott nodded slightly. His eyes were fastened on Deborah.

“You’re abroad early also,” he remarked to her. His voice was low and casual. The girl did not answer him but turned appealingly to Dreeme. Westcott smiled vaguely, the mere flash of an ironic humor that was undisturbed and sure of itself.

“How are you, Mrs. Slater?” he asked.

Mrs. Slater fluttered her eyes and coughed an intimation that she was not so well. Dreeme perceived that she did not like Westcott, but was making an effort to conceal her instinctive antagonism. There was fear in this effort. The farmer’s eyes roved about the room, casually inspected the books in the little case, and then reverted to Deborah.

“I’ve the horse here,” he said to her. “I’ll take you back now.”

“She’s not going back with you, Mr. Westcott,” interposed Dreeme dryly. “She’s not going back at all.”

Mrs. Slater opened her mouth with a cluck.

“Not at all,” repeated Dreeme, giving him a defiant look.

Westcott continued to regard the girl.

“Weren’t you coming back with me, Deborah?” he asked in a low silky voice.

A strange thing happened. Deborah rose to her feet slowly and took a single step toward the farmer. His dark eyes were fastened piercingly upon her now. Dreeme jumped from his chair and turned the girl around. Instantly she burst into tears.

“Don’t let me go,” she pleaded.

“I know now,” said Dreeme. He faced Westcott with a smile. He added:

“Try that on me. See if it will work on a man.”

Westcott lowered his cloven head.

“Really, doctor,” he said in a mild voice, “I don’t understand you.”

He, too, was smiling slightly.

“You neglected to send your bill,” he went on.

Fumbling in his pocket he drew forth a brand-new five dollar bill, and, limping forward, laid it on the table.

“There,” he said. “We are quits. Let us hope that we may remain quits.”

He opened his eyes and gazed full into Dreeme’s face. There was absolutely no expression in his look. It was like the meaningless stare of a blind man. Paying no more attention to Deborah he turned to Mrs. Slater.

“Is Walden in the fields?” he asked.

She nodded, and he swung on his heel.

“Good morning, doctor. Good morning, Mrs. Slater,” he said. He ignored Deborah. An instant later they heard his lame thumping through the hall, and then the closing of the front door. Dreeme absently picked up the bill. On it was scrawled:

“Even a fool may learn wisdom.”