He held out his hand, and black fingers shot over
and took it. A moment later the blind man was alone in the room.
The light of day vanished, and the stars came out. There was no moon, but
it was one of those nights of the West when millions of stars glimmer in
the blue vault above, and every planet and every star and cluster of
stars are so near that it might almost seem they could be caught by an
expert human hand. The air was very still, and a mantle of peace was
spread over the tender scene. The window and the glass doors that gave
from Ingolby's room upon the veranda on the south side of the house, were
open, and the air was warm as in Midsummer. Now and then the note of a
night-bird broke the stillness, but nothing more.
It was such a night as Ingolby loved; it was such a night as often found
him out in the restful gloom of the trees, thinking and brooding,
planning, revelling in memories of books he had read, and in dreaming of
books he might write-if there were time. Such a night insulated the dark
moods which possessed him occasionally almost as effectively as fishing
did; and that was saying much.
But the darkest mood of all his days was upon him now. When Rockwell
came, soon after Jim and the nurse left him, he simulated sleep, for he
had no mind to talk; and the doctor, deceived by his even breathing, had
left, contented.
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