so terrible in its pathos, I think: with the same dull
consciousness that this was the trial night of his life,--that
with the homely figure on the road-side he had turned his back on
love and kindly happiness and warmth, on all that was weak and
useless in the world. He had made his choice; he would abide by
it,--he would abide by it. He said that over and over again,
dulling down the death-gnawing of his outraged heart.

Miss Herne was quite contented, sitting by him, with herself, and
the admiring world. She had no notion of trial nights in life.
Not many temptations pierced through her callous, flabby
temperament to sting her to defeat or triumph. There was for her
no under-current of conflict, in these people whom she passed,
between self and the unseen power that Holmes sneered at, whose
name was love; they were nothing but movables, pleasant or ugly
to look at, well- or ill-dressed. There were no dark iron bars
across her life for her soul to clutch and shake madly,--nothing
"in the world amiss, to be unriddled by and by." Little Margret,
sitting by the muddy road, digging her fingers dully into the
clover-roots, while she looked at the spot where the wheels had
passed, looked at life differently, it may be;--or old Joe Yare
by the furnace-fire, his black face and gray hair bent over a
torn old spelling-book Lois had given him. The night, perhaps,
was going to be more to them than so many rainy hours for
sleeping,--the time to be looked back on through coming lives as
the hour when good and ill came to them, and they made their
choice, and, as Holmes said, did abide by it.

It grew cool and darker. Holmes left the phaeton before they
entered town, and turned back. He was going to see this Margret