"Greta, do you ever feel that what is happening now has happened before—somehow—somewhere—and where?—when?—the questions keep ringing in your brain and racking your heart—but there is no answer—you are shouting into a voiceless cavern."
His face was as pale as ashes, his eyes were fixed, and his gaze was far away. Greta grew afraid of the horror she had awakened.
"Don't think too seriously about it," she said. "Besides, I may have been mistaken. In fact, Hugh said—"
"Well, what did he say?"
"He made me ashamed. He said I had imagined I saw you and screamed, and so frightened your mother."
"There are men in the world who would see the Lord of Hosts come from the heavens in glory and say it was only a water-spout."
"But, as you said yourself, it was in the night, and very dark. I had nothing but the feeble oil-lamp to see by. Don't look like that, Paul."
The girl lifted a nervous hand and covered his eyes, and laughed a little, hollow laugh.
Paul shook himself free of his stupor.
"Good-night, Greta," he said, tenderly, and walked to the door. Then the vacant look returned.