And by-and-by his own voice returned upon him, as if the last words
he had spoken were being uttered through all that infinite space;
but in their echoes there was a tone of unutterable sorrow.
"Let my trespasses be unforgiven, so that I may have vengeance for
my son's murder."
He tried to shake off the spiritual impression made by this
imagination. He was feverish and ill,--and no wonder.
So he turned to go homewards; not, as he had threatened, to the
police-office. After all (he told himself), that would do in the
morning. No fear of the man's escaping, unless he escaped to the
grave.
So he tried to banish the phantom voices and shapes which came
unbidden to his brain, and to recall his balance of mind by walking
calmly and slowly, and noticing everything which struck his senses.
It was a warm soft evening in spring, and there were many persons in
the streets. Among others a nurse with a little girl in her charge,
conveying her home from some children's gaiety; a dance most likely,
for the lovely little creature was daintily decked out in soft,
snowy muslin; and her fairy feet tripped along by her nurse's side
as if to the measure of some tune she had lately kept time to.
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