IX 
A SHADOW 
I sHaLL always remember one winter even- 
ing, a little before Christmas-time, when I took 
a long, solitary walk in the outskirts of the 
town. The cold sunset had left a trail of 
orange light along the horizon, the dry snow 
tinkled beneath my feet, and the early stars 
had a keen, clear lustre that matched well with 
the sharp sound and the frosty sensation. For 
some time I had walked toward the gleam of a 
distant window, and as I approached, the light 
showed more and more clearly through the 
white curtains of a little cottage by the road. 
I stopped, on reaching it, to enjoy the sugges- 
tion of domestic cheerfulness in contrast with 
the dark outside. I could not see the inmates, 
nor they me; but something of human sym- 
pathy came from that steadfast ray. 
As I looked, a film of shade kept appearing 
and disappearing with rhythmic regularity in a 
corner of the window, as if some one might be 
sitting in a low rocking-chair close by. Pre- 
sently the motion ceased, and suddenly across 
