Suddenly a great owl flapped heavily over
him, and lighting in a tree near by, began its discordant hootings.
"That's an omen of death," he muttered, grimly. Then at last, in
uncontrollable irritation, he shouted, "Curse you, begone!" and
the ill-boding bird flapped away with a startled screech, that to
Van Berg's morbid fancy was like a demon's laugh. But it alighted
again a little further off and drove him half wild with its dismal
cries. At last there was a radiance among the trees on the eastern
side of the ravine, and soon the moon rose clear and bright; the
wind went down, and except the "audible silence" of insect sounds
all was still. Nature seemed to him holding her breath in suspense,
waiting for the end. He called out from time to time till, from
the lateness of the hour, he knew that it was utterly useless.
He began in a dreamy way, to wonder if Ida had missed him yet and
was surprised that he had not returned. He thought how strange,
how unaccountable even, his conduct must appear to Miss Burton,
and how very difficult it would have been to explain it at best.
"Ida was wrong, however, in thinking that it is for me that she
is grieving so deeply," he murmured, "although she may be right in
believing that I have raised hopes in Jennie's mind of a happier
future, when time had healed the wounds made in the past.
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