To Norrie Ford, peeping furtively from behind one of the domes of clipped foliage, there was exasperation in the fact that his new position gave him no glimpse of the people in the room.  His hunger to see them became for the minute more insistent than that for food.  They represented that human society from which he had waked one morning to find himself cut off, as a rock is cut off by seismic convulsion from the mainland of which it has formed a part.  It was in a sort of effort to span the gulf separating him from his own past that he peered now into this room, whose inmates were only passing the hours between the evening meal and bedtime.  That people could sit tranquilly reading books or playing games filled him with a kind of wonder.

When he considered it safe he slipped along to what he hoped would prove a better point of view, but, finding it no more advantageous, he darted to still another.  The light lured him as it might lure an insect of the night, till presently he stood on the very steps of the terrace.  He knew the danger of his situation, but he could not bring himself to turn and steal away till he had fixed the picture of that cheerful interior firmly on his memory.  The risk was great, but the glimpse of life was worth it.

With powers of observation quickened by his plight, he noted that the home was just such a one as that from which he had sprung—­one where old engravings hung on the walls, while books filled the shelves, and papers and periodicals strewed the tables.  The furnishings spoke of comfort and a modest dignity.  Obliquely in his line of vision he could see two children, seated at a table and poring over a picture-book The boy, a manly urchin, might have been fourteen, the girl a year or two younger.  Her curls fell over the hand and arm supporting her cheek, so that Ford could only guess at the blue eyes concealed behind them.  Now and then the boy turned a page before she was ready, whereupon followed pretty cries of protestation.  It was perhaps this mimic quarrel that called forth a remark from some one sitting within the shadow.

“Evie dear, it’s time to go to bed.  Billy, I don’t believe they let you stay up as late as this at home.”

“Oh yes, they do,” came Billy’s answer, given with sturdy assurance.  “I often stay up till nine.”

“Well, it’s half past now; so you’d both better come and say good-night.”

With one foot resting on the turf and the other raised to the first step of the terrace, as he stood with folded arms, Ford watched the little scene, in which the children closed their book, pushed back their chairs, and crossed the room to say good-night to the two who were seated in the shadow.  The boy came first, with hands thrust into his trousers pockets in a kind of grave nonchalance.  The little girl fluttered along behind, but broke her journey across the room by stepping into the opening of the long window and looking out into the night.  Ford stood breathless and motionless, expecting her to see him and cry out.  But she turned away and danced again into the shadow, after which he saw her no more.  The silence that fell within the room told him that the elders were left alone.