Now nothing is more evident than the absurdity of my trying to describe the mental ordeal through which this man passed on that last and most memorable night of his life. I base what I say upon that which Doctor Spellman told me as the result of his painstaking investigation, during the succeeding months, of the most singular case with which he was ever concerned, and even the brilliant medical man could not be absolutely certain of all his conclusions. However, they sound so reasonable that I now give them.
Throughout the afternoon, Uncle Elk was depressed in spirits, as is sometimes true of a person who is on the eve of some event or experience of decisive importance to himself. He was subject to a peculiar physical chilliness which led him to kindle a fire on his broad hearth, in front of which as the night shadows gathered, he seated himself in his cushioned rocking chair. As time passed he gave himself over to meditation of the long ago with its sorrowful memories.
He had sat thus for some time when he was roused by the twitching of the latchstring. He turned his head to welcome his caller, when he was so startled that at first he could not believe what his eyes told him. A little girl, of the age and appearance of the one who had gone down in the depths of the fathomless sea, stood before him.
“Good evening,” called the child in her gentle voice; “how do you do?”
“Who are you? What’s your name?” faltered the astounded old man.
“I am Ruth,” she replied, coming toward him with the trusting confidence of childhood.
This was the name of the loved one who had left him in the long ago. The resemblance was perfect, as it seemed to him. It was she!
He rose to his feet, reached out, clasped her hand and touched his lips to the chubby cheek.
“God be praised! You are my own Ruth come back to me after all these years!”
That poor brain, racked by so many torturing fancies, accepted it all as truth.