The lights were visible now in the upper rooms of Father Forbes’ pastorate across the way.  Theron paused for a second to consider whether he wanted to go over and call on the priest.  He decided that mentally he was too fagged and flat for such an undertaking.  He needed another sort of companionship—­some restful, soothing human contact, which should exact nothing from him in return, but just take charge of him, with soft, wise words and pleasant plays of fancy, and jokes and—­and—­something of the general effect created by Sister Soulsby’s eyes.  The thought expanded itself, and he saw that he had never realized before—­nay, never dreamt before—­what a mighty part the comradeship of talented, sweet-natured and beautiful women must play in the development of genius, the achievement of lofty aims, out in the great world of great men.  To know such women—­ah, that would never fall to his hapless lot.

The priest’s lamps blinked at him through the trees.  He remembered that priests were supposed to be even further removed from the possibilities of such contact than he was himself.  His memory reverted to that horribly ugly old woman whom Father Forbes had spoken of as his housekeeper.  Life under the same roof with such a hag must be even worse than—­worse than—­

The young minister did not finish the comparison, even in the privacy of his inner soul.  He stood instead staring over at the pastorate, in a kind of stupor of arrested thought.  The figure of a woman passed in view at the nearest window—­a tall figure with pale summer clothes of some sort, and a broad summer hat—­a flitting effect of diaphanous shadow between him and the light which streamed from the casement.

Theron felt a little shiver run over him, as if the delicate coolness of the changing night-air had got into his blood.  The window was open, and his strained hearing thought it caught the sound of faint laughter.  He continued to gaze at the place where the vision had appeared, the while a novel and strange perception unfolded itself upon his mind.

He had come there in the hope of encountering Celia Madden.

Now that he looked this fact in the face, there was nothing remarkable about it.  In truth, it was simplicity itself.  He was still a sick man, weak in body and dejected in spirits.  The thought of how unhappy and unstrung he was came to him now with an insistent pathos that brought tears to his eyes.  He was only obeying the universal law of nature—­the law which prompts the pallid spindling sprout of the potato in the cellar to strive feebly toward the light.

From where he stood in the darkness he stretched out his hands in the direction of that open window.  The gesture was his confession to the overhanging boughs, to the soft night-breeze, to the stars above—­and it bore back to him something of the confessional’s vague and wistful solace.  He seemed already to have drawn down into his soul a taste of the refreshment it craved.  He sighed deeply, and the hot moisture smarted again upon his eyelids, but this time not all in grief.  With his tender compassion for himself there mingled now a flutter of buoyant prescience, of exquisite expectancy.