He dropped her hands and pointed across the park.
"Now go to that gray house. Ring the bell, and you will be housed for the night. Remember you are mine. When the bell rings you will 'wake.'"
She moved away without looking back—moved mechanically like one still in sleep.
The man watched her until the door opened and admitted her; then he passed on into the shadow of the narrow street.
And this the listener gravely asked:
"One was chosen, the other left. Were the others less in need of grace?"
[BEFORE THE LOW GREEN DOOR.]
Matilda Bent was dying; there was no doubt of that now, if there had been before. The gruff old physician—one of the many overworked and underpaid country doctors—shook his head and pushed by Joe Bent, her husband, as he passed through the room which served as dining room, sitting room, and parlor. The poor fellow slouched back to his chair by the stove as if dazed, and before he could speak again the doctor was gone.