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"
How
is
this
,
Reuben
?
Have
you
slain
the
deer
and
fallen
asleep
over
him
?
"
exclaimed
Dorcas
,
laughing
cheerfully
,
on
her
first
slight
observation
of
his
posture
and
appearance
.
He
stirred
not
,
neither
did
he
turn
his
eyes
towards
her
;
and
a
cold
,
shuddering
fear
,
indefinite
in
its
source
and
object
,
began
to
creep
into
her
blood
.
She
now
perceived
that
her
husband
’
s
face
was
ghastly
pale
,
and
his
features
were
rigid
,
as
if
incapable
of
assuming
any
other
expression
than
the
strong
despair
which
had
hardened
upon
them
.
He
gave
not
the
slightest
evidence
that
he
was
aware
of
her
approach
"
For
the
love
of
Heaven
,
Reuben
,
speak
to
me
!
"
cried
Dorcas
;
and
the
strange
sound
of
her
own
voice
affrighted
her
even
more
than
the
dead
silence
.
Her
husband
started
,
stared
into
her
face
,
drew
her
to
the
front
of
the
rock
,
and
pointed
with
his
finger
.
Oh
,
there
lay
the
boy
,
asleep
,
but
dreamless
,
upon
the
fallen
forest
leaves
!
His
cheek
rested
upon
his
arm
—
his
curled
locks
were
thrown
back
from
his
brow
—
his
limbs
were
slightly
relaxed
.
Had
a
sudden
weariness
overcome
the
youthful
hunter
?
Would
his
mother
’
s
voice
arouse
him
?
She
knew
that
it
was
death
.
"
This
broad
rock
is
the
gravestone
of
your
near
kindred
,
Dorcas
,
"
said
her
husband
.
"
Your
tears
will
fall
at
once
over
your
father
and
your
son
.
"
She
heard
him
not
.
With
one
wild
shriek
,
that
seemed
to
force
its
way
from
the
sufferer
’
s
inmost
soul
,
she
sank
insensible
by
the
side
of
her
dead
boy
.
At
that
moment
the
withered
topmost
bough
of
the
oak
loosened
itself
in
the
stilly
air
,
and
fell
in
soft
,
light
fragments
upon
the
rock
,
upon
the
leaves
,
upon
Reuben
,
upon
his
wife
and
child
,
and
upon
Roger
Malvin
’
s
bones
.
Then
Reuben
’
s
heart
was
stricken
,
and
the
tears
gushed
out
like
water
from
a
rock
.
The
vow
that
the
wounded
youth
had
made
the
blighted
man
had
come
to
redeem
.
His
sin
was
expiated
,
—
the
curse
was
gone
from
him
;
and
in
the
hour
when
he
had
shed
blood
dearer
to
him
than
his
own
,
a
prayer
,
the
first
for
years
,
went
up
to
Heaven
from
the
lips
of
Reuben
Bourne
.
An
elderly
man
,
with
his
pretty
daughter
on
his
arm
,
was
passing
along
the
street
,
and
emerged
from
the
gloom
of
the
cloudy
evening
into
the
light
that
fell
across
the
pavement
from
the
window
of
a
small
shop
.
It
was
a
projecting
window
;
and
on
the
inside
were
suspended
a
variety
of
watches
,
pinchbeck
,
silver
,
and
one
or
two
of
gold
,
all
with
their
faces
turned
from
the
streets
,
as
if
churlishly
disinclined
to
inform
the
wayfarers
what
o
’
clock
it
was
.
Seated
within
the
shop
,
sidelong
to
the
window
with
his
pale
face
bent
earnestly
over
some
delicate
piece
of
mechanism
on
which
was
thrown
the
concentrated
lustre
of
a
shade
lamp
,
appeared
a
young
man
.
"
What
can
Owen
Warland
be
about
?
"
muttered
old
Peter
Hovenden
,
himself
a
retired
watchmaker
,
and
the
former
master
of
this
same
young
man
whose
occupation
he
was
now
wondering
at
.
"
What
can
the
fellow
be
about
?
These
six
months
past
I
have
never
come
by
his
shop
without
seeing
him
just
as
steadily
at
work
as
now
.
It
would
be
a
flight
beyond
his
usual
foolery
to
seek
for
the
perpetual
motion
;
and
yet
I
know
enough
of
my
old
business
to
be
certain
that
what
he
is
now
so
busy
with
is
no
part
of
the
machinery
of
a
watch
.
"
"
Perhaps
,
father
,
"
said
Annie
,
without
showing
much
interest
in
the
question
,
"
Owen
is
inventing
a
new
kind
of
timekeeper
.
I
am
sure
he
has
ingenuity
enough
.
"
