After a long absence, Sir Donald and Esther are back at Northfield. Many parts of Europe and the Orient were visited. Father and daughter saw much of interest. Their stops had been sufficiently prolonged for comfort and intelligent impression.

Though in regular communication with the London office, Sir Donald knows nothing about the present location of either Lanier.

That William Dodge disappeared from Calcutta seems certain. After the death of Nellie this unfortunate man was released. News of her illness and of his boy’s death at length reached Dodge through the doctor. All attempts of Mary Dodge to hear from her husband while he was in prison were unavailing. Little Nellie’s appeals to see “papa” had failed.

Under patrol of verbal promise the prisoner was permitted to attend the burial. He returned according to pledge. In about ten days thereafter he was released. The family soon moved, and there is no clew to present whereabouts.

Neither Sir Donald nor Esther heard anything from Oswald Langdon. Since Oswald’s departure from Calcutta, Sir Donald anxiously had waited for notice of clew to Lanier guilt. He believed London agents honestly were seeking more decisive results, but there was little immediate or remote prospect of success. At the last Calcutta conference, Sir Donald promised Oswald to spare no zeal in bringing these villains to swift accounting.

Convinced that absence from England and India was essential to success of plans then in operation, Oswald hesitated not, but promptly sailed.

It was agreed between them that any decisive act or clew should be communicated by letter to Paris, thence forwarded to whatever point they should direct. Sir Donald’s letters would be directed to an agreed alias. Both would use guarded terms, but to them intelligible. There would be no letter from Sir Donald except “upon some important development.” Should Oswald stop long at any point, he was to write, that unnecessary delay might be avoided.

They had decided that any attempt of Oswald at ferreting out these crimes would be dangerous. Such action might hamper the London bureau and hasten a crisis exculpating the Laniers.

Sir Donald had told Esther the cause of Oswald’s sudden departure. She was saddened, but made no protest. That the innocent should suffer such unjust banishment shocked Esther’s ideas of right providence. Why were such straits permitted?

Esther begins to see that the world groans beneath weight of unmerited burdens. Under fairest skies gleam sacrificial blades. Balmiest airs minister to altar-fires. Bird-carols and zephyr-murmurs are but medley variations to minor chords of vicarious pain.

Esther now has occasional convictions that some wrongs may continue indefinitely. Can it be that transient evil is lasting good? Are there more clamorous voices than those of physical need? Shall the less ravenous, yet infinitely more real, soul-hunger wait on alms and ambulance?

That such moods of questioning thought bear intimate reference to Oswald’s hard fate no way lessens their deep sincerity. Heart queries are wonderfully profound.

No word of complaint escapes Esther’s lips, nor does she doubt the wisdom of their proposed course. Deeply solicitous for Oswald’s vindication, this loyally sympathetic girl would hesitate at no personal sacrifice in his behalf. It is hard that she can do nothing to help him.

Aware of her father’s interest in her every wish and aspiration, Esther refrains from any suggestion which may cause additional care.

Sir Donald’s observing vision notes each emotional clew. Many unspoken queries find vocal reply. Delicate points are cleared by suggestive indirection. Neither completely yields to profitless conjecture. They magnetize Northfield.

One bright day Sir Donald and Esther take a stroll about the familiar grounds. The air is laden with perfume of flowers. Both are charmed with exquisite plant and foliage shades. Many exclamatory comments are uttered by the enthusiastic daughter, more gravely confirmed by her gently reserved father. They quit the mansion grounds for a stroll along the wood-fringed lake. Past the family graves, where a pensive hour is spent, they walk to where a small sail is locked fast by the pebbly shore. Sir Donald fails to loosen the fastening. Farther down is a rowboat, in which they start out on the lake.

Moving along with the breeze, both yield to meditation. Former tragic happenings upon this peaceful lake come to mind. Each ripple is tremulous with saddened retrospect. Every voice of wind and branch is keyed to minor utterance. These, with monotonous swish of slow waves, blending with notes of leaf-hid birds, seem miséréré and requiem.

At this projecting shrub, bright-eyed, sweet-voiced, vivacious, loving, impulsive Alice Webster had been rescued by Oswald Langdon; yonder is the wooded point toward which Paul Lanier was sailing when, maddened by her frightened resistance and stinging protests, he roughly pushed Alice overboard. Here is the bank upon which the body again became instinct with life’s returning pulses.

Such panorama, with varying lines of sorrowful perspective, passed before Sir Donald’s and Esther’s view. Each colored the pathetic pictures with like yet different hues, from peculiar tints of inner consciousness.

Sir Donald is struck by singular grouping of assault, projecting shrub, knotted tie, Oswald’s sail and opportune rescue; Esther’s memory reverts to that eloquent avowal beyond the distant ravine. Some misgivings as to her own conduct on that occasion are now felt. There is an accusing sense of vague responsibility for after tragic happenings. That true penitence often means restitution is a cardinal tenet in Esther’s creed. This is now most soothing conscience specific.

If Esther wrongfully withheld from that earnest, masterful, persuasive suitor his just dues, she now feels such ethical qualms as to prompt payment with usury.

Moving with the breeze, the boat is nearing the point where Esther, Alice Webster, and Oswald Langdon were seated when Paul Lanier listened to that proposed London trip made necessary by the suit of William Dodge.

Soon are heard tones of impassioned declamation. With unearthly unction the voice repeats those dream-lines so dramatically uttered in hearing of Paul Lanier at Bombay.

Again and again come the words, “Fierce avenging sprite,” “till blood for blood atones,” “buried from my sight,” “and trodden down with stones.” Then follow loud, hollow, unnatural guffaws, succeeded by, “And years have rotted off his flesh.” There are muttered curses, a blood-curdling, demoniacal yell, then in solemn, guttural tones, “The world shall see his bones.”

These disconnected yet coherent utterances cease. Soon are heard retreating footsteps.

Profoundly moved, Sir Donald turns the boat and vigorously rows back to the shore. Both are glad to reach land, and rapidly walk homeward. Neither is superstitious, but such ghostly utterances, with all drapings of time and place, weirdly tinted by so pensive, reminiscent sentiments, rouse dormant fancies. Each feels a mystic sense of some impending crisis.