There was once a little white house somewhere in the suburbs of a city. It stood near the end of a half-built street, with a sandy road in front. There was a child, too, that rolled its doll down the steps, rolled after it, wept aloud and laughed through its tears.
The stiff leather rasped the Hermit's skin. The clouds closed in again; he shook himself, and raised his voice threateningly in words familiar enough to the denounced people of the Wyantenaug: “It is written, 'Thou shalt have no other gods before me'; and your gods are multitudes.” He stared with dazed eyes across the dusky river. The little ripples chuckled, sobbed and gurgled in a soft, human way. Something seemed to steal in upon him, like a gentle hand, pleading and caressing. He made an angry motion to thrust it away, and muttered: “Judgment to come—judgment to come.” He seemed to hear a sobbing and whispering, and then two infinite things came together in his shattered brain with a crash, leaving him stunned and still.
There was a syringa bush before the little white house, a picket fence, too, white and neat. Who was it that when he would cry, “Judgment to come!” would whisper and sob? That was not a child. That was—no—well, there was a child. Evidently it rolled its doll down the steps and rolled after it. There was a tan-yard, too, and the dressing of hides. He dressed hides across a bench. The other men did not take much interest in judgment to come. They swore at him and burned sulphur under his bench. After that the child rolled its doll down the steps again, and bumped after it pitifully.
The Hermit groaned and hid his face. He could almost remember it all, if it were not for the black spots, the sins of the world. Something surely was true—whether judgment to come or the child bumping down the steps he could not tell, but he thought, “Presently I shall forget one of the two.”
The sun had set, and the dusk was creeping from the irregular hills beyond, over the village of Preston Plains, over the house of Bazilloa Armitage. Dark storm-clouds were bearing down from the north. A glitter sprang once more into the Hermit's eyes, and he welcomed the clouds, stretching out his hands toward them. Suddenly he dropped his hands, and the glitter died out in a dull stare. Across the last red reflection of the water glided a boat, his own boat, or one like it. A little child in white rose up and stood in the prow, and, as though she were a spirit, the light in the west passed into her hair. It was not the right way for judgment to come. The dark clouds bearing down from the north—that was judgment to come; but the spirit in the boat, that—could not be anything—it was false—unless—unless it rolled down the steps. And then once more the two infinite things came together with a crash. He leaped to his feet; for a moment his hands went to and fro over his head; he babbled mere sounds, and fell forward on his face, groaning.
Cissy Armitage achieved the top of the bank with difficulty, and adjusted her pinafore. The Hermit lay on his face very still. It was embarrassing.
“I—I brought back your boat, so you needn't feel bad. I—I feel bad.”
She stopped, hearing the Hermit moan once softly, and then for a time the only sound was the lapping of the water. It was growing quite dark. She thought that he must feel even worse than she had imagined.
“I'm sorry. It's awful lonesome. I—want to go home.”
The Hermit made no motion. Cissy felt that it was a bad case. She twisted her pinafore and blinked hard. The lumps were rising in her throat, and she did not know what to say that would show the Hermit how badly she felt—unless she said “Selah.” It was strong language, but she ventured it at last.