but which seemed to the lad altogether soulless. He believed the man to be dead.
The situation was horrible, but not with out its fascination. The boy stopped to note it all. He was weak, faint and trembling; he could feel the blood forsaking his face. Nevertheless, he set his teeth and resolutely advanced to the house. He had no conscious intention—it was the mere courage of terror. He thrust his white face forward into the illuminated opening. At that instant a strange, harsh cry, a shriek, broke upon the silence of the night the note of a screech-owl. The man sprang to his feet, overturning the table and extinguishing the candle. The boy took to his heels.
THE DAY BEFORE
"Good-morning, Colston. I am in luck, it seems. You have often said that my commendation of your literary work was mere civility, and here you find me absorbed—actually merged—in your latest story in the Messenger. Nothing less shocking than your touch upon my shoulder would have roused me to consciousness."
"The proof is stronger than you seem to know," replied the man addressed: "so keen
