JEAN JACQUES HAS WORK TO DO

A single lighted lamp, turned low, was suspended from the ceiling of the
raftered room, and through the open doorway which gave on to a little
wooden piazza with a slight railing and small, shaky gate came the swish
of the Watloon River. No moon was visible, but the stars were radiant
and alive--trembling with life. There was something soothing, something
endlessly soothing in the sound of the river. It suggested the ceaseless
movement of life to the final fulness thereof.

So still was the room that it might have seemed to be without life, were
it not for a faint sound of breathing. The bed, however, was empty, and
no chair was occupied; but on a settle in a corner beside an unused
fireplace sat a man, now with hands clasped between his knees, again with
arms folded across his breast; but with his head always in a listening
attitude. The whole figure suggested suspense, vigilance and
preparedness. The man had taken off his boots and stockings, and his
bare feet seemed to grip the floor; also the sleeves of his jacket were
rolled up a little. It was not a figure you would wish to see in your
room at midnight unasked. Once or twice he sighed heavily, as he
listened to the river slishing past and looked out to the sparkle of the
skies. It was as though the infinite had drawn near to the man, or else
that the man had drawn near to the infinite. Now and again he brought
his fists down on his knees with a savage, though noiseless, force. The
peace of the river and the night could not contend successfully against a
dark spirit working in him. When, during his vigil, he shook his shaggy
head and his lips opened on his set teeth, he seemed like one who would
take toll at a gateway of forbidden things.

He started to his feet at last, hearing footsteps outside upon the