"Kate, it is even-song. We see the steep way of to-morrow's journey, the pain and sorrow from here to the next hill. But presently our way shall be revealed from star to star. We pa.s.s from earthly sunshine and fretted time, into the timeless ageless glory of the heavens. We sleep in Heaven, and when we wake again we rise filled with the presence of the Eternal to put immortal power into our daily service."

The sun had set, and the first star just shone out, as Jesse came, standing at the mouth of the cave, dark against the glory. I could not see his face.

The father released me, turning to my dear man. "Jesse," he said, "won't you shake hands with me?

"You see," he said, "I made a mistake myself, thinking a priest should be celibate to win love from on high. But in its fullest strength G.o.d's love comes through a woman to shine upon our life--and so I've missed the greatest of His gifts. Your wife has told me everything, and I'm so envious. Won't you shake hands? I've been so lonely. Won't you?"

But my man stood in the mouth of the cave, as though he were being judged.

"This filth," he said, "out of the past. Filth!"

His voice sounded as though he were dead.

"The law," he said. "I've come to find out what's the law?"

"Man's law?"

"I suppose so."

"But I don't know. I'm only a very ignorant old man; your friend, if you'll have me."

"What do you think?"

"So far as I see, Jesse, the woman can arraign you on a charge of bigamy. Moreover, if you seek divorce she can plead that there's equal guilt, from which there's no release."

"And that's the law?"

"Man's law. But, Jesse, when you and Kate were joined in holy matrimony, was it man's law which said, 'Whom G.o.d hath joined, let no man put asunder.' What has man's law to do with the awful justice of Almighty G.o.d?

"And here, my son, I am something more than a foolish old man." He rose to his feet, making the sign of the cross. "I am ordained," he said, "a barrister to plead at the bar of Heaven. Will you not have me as your adviser, Jesse?"

"Whom G.o.d hath joined," Jesse laughed horribly, "that harlot and I."

"She swore to love, honor and obey?"

"Till death us part!"

"And that was perjury?"

"A joke! A joke!"

"That was not marriage, my son, but blasphemy, the sin beyond forgiveness. The piteous lost creature has never been your wife. She tried to break her way into our poor world of life and love. It is forbidden and she was fearfully wounded. To-day she tried again, and is there, in that forest, with the falling night."

"I told her what she is, straight from the shoulder."

"Who made her so?"

Jesse lowered his head.

"Who made her the living accusation of men's sins? She is the terrible state's evidence, G.o.d's evidence, which waits to be released in the Day of Judgment. You told her straight from the shoulder. Judge not that ye be not judged. Remember that of all the men she knew on earth, you only can plead not guilty."

"Because I married her?" asked Jesse humbly.

"Because you tried. You gave her your clean name, your pure life, your manhood, an act of knightly chivalry. Arthur, Galahad, Perceval, Launcelot, and many other gentlemen who are now at rest, will seek your friendship in the after life. You are being tried as they were tried in that fierce flame of temptation which tests the finest manhood.

"Only a cur would blame the weak. Only a coward would accuse the lost.

But in your manhood remember her courage, Jesse. Forgive as you hope for pardon. Keep your life clean, from every touch of evil, but to the world stand up for the honor of the name you gave her."

"I will."

"You forgive?"

"Yes."

"You will pray for her?"

"I will pray."

"And now the hardest test has still to come. For your wife's honor and for the child, you must keep their names stainless, clear of all reproach while you await G.o.d's judgment. They must leave you, Jesse."

"Oh, not that, sir!"

"Can they stay here in honor?"

"No."

"Can you run away?"

"Never!"

"Then you must part."

Jesse covered his face with his hands, and there against the deepening twilight I saw shadows reaching out from him, as though--slowly the shadows took form of high-shouldered wings and mighty pinions sweeping to the ground.

He looked up, and behold he was changed.

"Pray for me, sir!" he whispered.

Then the priest raised his hand, and gave him the benediction.

_Jesse Closes the Book_

It is years now since my lady left me. Never has an ax touched her trees, or any human creature entered her locked house. The rustle of her dress is in the leaves each fall, the pines still echo to her voice. I hear her footsteps over the new snow, I feel her presence when I read her books. I know her thoughts are spirits haunting me, and all things wait until she comes back. Not until I lost my lady did I ever hear that faint, thin, swaying echo when her grove seemed to be humming tunes. At times when dew was falling, I have heard the pattering of millions and millions of little feet, just as she said, making the gra.s.s bend.

The papers often have pictures of my lady, the last as the Electra of Euripides. I love her most of all in the Grecian robes, for once she dreamed that she and I had been Greeks in some lost forgotten life.

Perhaps this is not our only life, or our last life, and we may be mated in some place yet to come, where we shall not part.