I rose and searched the house. She was not in it. I did not
know where to seek her; but, at a venture, I started along the
shore.

It was pale, fainting moonlight. The harbor looked like a
phantom harbor, and the night was as still and cold and calm as
the face of a dead man. At last I saw my wife coming to me along
the shore. When I saw her, I knew what I had feared and how
great my fear had been.

As she drew near, I saw that she had been crying; her face was
stained with tears, and her dark hair hung loose over her
shoulders in little, glossy ringlets like a child's. She seemed
to be very tired, and at intervals she wrung her small hands
together.

She showed no surprise when she met me, but only held out her
hands to me as if glad to see me.

"I followed him--but I could not overtake him," she said with a
sob. "I did my best--I hurried so; but he was always a little
way ahead. And then I lost him--and so I came back. But I did
my best--indeed I did. And oh, I am so tired!"

"Josie, dearest, what do you mean, and where have you been?" I
said, drawing her close to me. "Why did you go out so--alone in
the night?"

She looked at me wonderingly.