Thus she stood for a space of vast
apparent duration, but in reality most brief. That trifling standpoint in
time needed for a dream or for the brain-picture of his past which
dominates the mind of the drowning was all that had sped with Joan. Then,
shaking herself clear of thought, she found her candle, which burned dim
when first lighted, was only now melting the wax and rising to its full
flame. A mist of damp had long hung on the inner walls of the kitchen at
Drift, begotten not of faulty building but by the peculiar condition of the
atmosphere; and as the candle flickered up in a chamber dark save for its
light and the subdued glow of a low fire, Joan noticed how the gathering
moisture on the walls had coalesced, run into drops and fallen, streaking
the misty gray with bright bars and networks, silvery' as the slime of
snails.
With shaking hand, she set the candle upon a table, dropped into a chair
beside it and opened her letter. For a moment the page with its large
printed characters danced before her eyes, then they steadied and she was
able to read. Like a message from one long dead came the words; and in
truth, though the writer lived, he wrote upon the threshold of the grave.
John Barren had put into force his project, which was, as may be
remembered, to write to Joan when the end of his journey came in sight. The
words were carefully chosen, for he remembered her sympathy with suffering
and her extensive ignorance.
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