He did not utter any exclamation; strangely enough, he did not at first feel any shock or surprise. He advanced toward it slowly. But when at last he stood near it, the shock came. His heart beat as if it would burst.
"What falseness is there in me," he cried, "that I should have forgotten it?"
He was stricken with burning shame. He did not ask himself how it was that it stood there in its place. He thought of nothing but the lack in himself which was so deep a humiliation. Everything else was swept away. He sank into the chair and sat staring at it.
"I had forgotten it," he said,—"forgotten it."
And then he put out his hand and touched and moved it—and drew it toward him.
About an hour afterward he was obliged to go downstairs for something he needed. It was to the sitting-room he went, and when he pushed the door open he found a dim light burning and saw that some one was lying upon the sofa. His first thought was that it was his mother who had waited for him, but it was not she—it was Christian Murdoch, fast asleep with her face upon her arm.
Her hat and gloves were thrown upon the table and she still wore a long gray cloak which was stained and damp about the hem. He saw this as soon as he saw her face, and no sooner saw than he understood.
He went to the sofa and stood a moment looking down at her, and, though he did not speak or stir, she awakened.
She sat up and pushed her cloak aside, and he spoke to her.
"It was you who brought it back," he said.
"Yes," she answered quietly. "I thought that if you saw it in the old place again, you would remember."
