Sebastian had come to visit his old friend and former wife. He saw his father, calling to him from an icy white tunnel, beckoning to him. She found herself again in the presence of some element in life about which she had been trained not to think, about which she was perhaps instinctively indisposed to think; something which jarred, in spite of all her mental resistance, with all her preconceptions of a clean and courageous girl walking out from Morningside Park as one walks out of a cell into a free and spacious world. He taught her how to read and write in Latin and Greek, often rewarding her for her efforts with a flower or a trinket. He had been dreaming of Ruth—an old recurrency of that dream he had had in Canton, of Ruth leading him to the top of the mountain. ‘But I will tell you this, mon vieux.
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