"I know; but this fitted in almost every detail. I would n't ask him how long ago all this happened."
"Nor I," was the Doctor's reply, and his answer gave a glimpse of his thought. "I will when it comes right."
"Dear old Cale," I murmured. I felt it incumbent on me to say something, lest my unresponsiveness be noticed.
The Doctor rose and took a cigar from the box on the mantel, saying almost to himself:
"'There may be heaven, there must be hell,
Meantime there is our earth here—well!'
"Good night, Mrs. Macleod, good night, Boy—Marcia, good night."
He spoke in his usual voice, but with noticeable abruptness.
XXI
So Cale knew. This was my first thought when I found myself alone in my room. Cale, then, was the husband of my mother's sister, Jemima Morey, who died before I was born, whose name I had heard but two or three times. My Aunt Keziah's mind grew dull in the strain of circumstance; she was never given a full supply of brains, and her memory weakened as she aged. Had she lived,—I shuddered at the thought,—she would have been imbecile like my grandfather and, doubtless, have lived to his age, ninety. In that case there would have been no life for me here.