September 28.—A rainy day. It has been coming down in floods since dawn. And I got a queer turn this afternoon.
As I could not get out for my walk, I spent the morning staging a general house-cleaning. It was time! Dust and dirt everywhere. The bath-room, which has no window and is lighted by gas, was fairly overrun with water-bugs and roaches. Of course I did not penetrate to Arthur’s room, but I heard no sound from him as I swept and dusted.
I made a good dinner and settled down in the library, feeling quite cosy. The rain came down steadily and it had grown so cold that I decided to make a fire later on. But once I had gathered my tablets and notebooks about me I forgot the cold.
I remember I was on the subject of the Aster Tripolium, a rare variety seldom found in this country. Turning a page, I came upon a specimen of this very variety, dried, pressed flat, and pasted to the margin. Above it, in Arthur’s handwriting, I read:
September 27, 1912.
I was bending close to examine it, when I felt a vague fear. It seemed to me that someone was in the room and was watching me. Yet I had not heard the door open, nor seen anyone enter. I turned sharply and saw Arthur, wrapped in his reddish-brown dressing-gown, standing at my very elbow.
He was smiling—smiling for the first time since my arrival, and his dull eyes were bright. But I did not like that smile. In spite of myself I jerked away from him. He pointed at the aster.
“It grew in the front yard under a linden tree. I found it yesterday.”
“Yesterday!” I shouted, my nerves on edge. “Good Lord man! Look! It was ten years ago!”