possess the whole house. There was no light but that of the fire
in the front room, which threw flickering and gigantic shadows on
the walls of the three empty chairs before it. An hour later it
seemed as if one of the chairs were occupied, and a grotesque
profile of Collinson's slumbering--or meditating--face and figure
was projected grimly on the rafters as though it were the hovering
guardian spirit of the house. But even that passed presently and
faded out, and the beleaguering darkness that had encompassed the
house all the evening began to slowly creep in through every chink
and cranny of the rambling, ill-jointed structure, until it at last
obliterated even the faint embers on the hearth. The cool
fragrance of the woodland depths crept in with it until the steep
of human warmth, the reek of human clothing, and the lingering
odors of stale human victual were swept away in that incorruptible
and omnipotent breath. An hour later--and the wilderness had
repossessed itself of all.

Key, the lightest sleeper, awoke early,--so early that the dawn
announced itself only in two dim squares of light that seemed to
grow out of the darkness at the end of the room where the windows
looked out upon the valley. This reminded him of his woodland
vision of the night before, and he lay and watched them until they
brightened and began to outline the figures of his still sleeping
companions. But there were faint stirrings elsewhere,--the soft
brushing of a squirrel across the shingled roof, the tiny flutter
of invisible wings in the rafters, the "peep" and "squeak" of baby
life below the floor. And then he fell into a deeper sleep, and
awoke only when it was broad day.

The sun was shining upon the empty bunks; his companions were