The roar of the stamp-heads deadened her hearing of the night's subtler
noises. Her thoughts went grinding on, crushing the hard rock of
circumstance, but incapable of picking out the grains of gold therein.
Later siftings might discover them, but she was reasoning now under too
great human pressure for delicate analysis.

She saw the planets set and the night-mist cloak the valley. By four
o'clock daybreak had put out the stars. She went to her room then and
fell asleep, awakening after the heat had begun, when the house was again
darkened for the day's siege.

She was still postponing, wandering through the darkened rooms, peering
into closets and bureau drawers to see, from force of habit, how Ito
discharged his trust.

At luncheon she asked her husband if he had written. He made a gesture
expressing his sense of the hopelessness of the situation in general.

"You know how I came by my knowledge, and how little it amounts to as a
question of facts."

"Henry, how can you trifle so! You believe, just as I do, that such facts
would wreck any marriage. And you are not the only one who knows them. I
think your knowledge was providentially given you for the saving of your
son."

"My son is a man. _I_ can't save him. And take my word for it, he will go
all lengths now before he will be saved."

"Let him go, then, with his eyes open, not blindfold, in jeopardy of other