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charity—these three. But the greatest 32 of these”—Alice’s glance fell sidewards upon me—“is charity.”
    I didn’t look up. I kept my eyes fixed on my hymnal, and we began to sing.
    Even though our lives resumed an outward state of calm and normalcy, inwardly Alice and I had undergone a change. We never spoke of the night I turned Richard Atlee away from our door, but it was clear from our behavior toward each other that neither of us had forgotten it. He existed as an issue between us, and for all intents and purposes, though we had managed to get him out of the crawl, he was still very much present in the house.
    For one thing, we talked less to each other. When we met or came together we were, now as ever, civil, but there was something stiff and cool about it. We talked less intimately and more formally. A wall was up between us. Often while we worked together in the garden, or sat at supper, or undressed in the evening, I would suddenly look up and find her staring at me.
    It was no anger in her face I saw; there was nothing accusatory or even petulant. It was or the most part questioning. It seemed to say, “What do you want to do now?”
    In the few remaining sunny weeks of autumn, Alice and I grew increasingly distant. One night after a dinner eaten in bleak and cheerless silence, I said, “All right. Speak up! What’s on your mind?”
    “Nothing’s on my mind, Albert.” She rose and walked to the sideboard, where two cups of pink junket stood, then walked slowly back and placed one at each of our settings.
    “Why don’t you say what’s bothering you?” I said.
    “I’ve forgotten it, Albert.”
    “I did what was best.”
    “I know you did, dear.”
    “Then why don’t you let me forget it?”
    “I haven’t said a word.”
    I ground my teeth. “It’s not what you say. It’s the looks. The moping around. The sullen glances.”
    Her eyes were very steady, and when she spoke her voice was quite calm. “I’ve forgotten it, Albert.”
    “You lie. It’s that boy. You’ve never stopped thinking of him.”
    Flushing with anger, I rose from the table, and as I did a hot pain seared my chest. It was like being pierced with a saber.
    I fell back into my chair. In the next moment she was kneeling at my side. “Albert? Are you all right?”
    I stared straight ahead, waiting for the pain to subside, for the knot to dissolve.
    “Albert—Are you all right?”
    Her hand fell over my arm and pressed it. I could see the fear in her eyes. Very carefully I lifted the hand and pushed it away. By then I was able to stand. I did, and in the next moment, I walked quickly out of the room.
    Thus our days went—chilly, awkward, hostile.
    But one question above all haunted and perplexed me. Why had Richard Atlee written the word GOD above my cellar door. So curious and so incongruous it was to see it there.
    I hadn’t washed it from where he’d scrawled it above the door. It was almost as if I had a need to go out and see it every day, and confront myself with it. Each day I’d go down to the garden and, standing before the door, ponder Richard Atlee’s purpose in putting the word there.
    One afternoon late in November a man came to clean the flue. I went down to the cellar with him and showed him the furnace. After he left I remained there in the gloomy half-light of dusk staring around at the place as if I’d never seen it before.
    I suddenly remembered the books and mementos Richard Atlee had left in the cupboard and realized I’d completely forgotten to take them out and bring them upstairs. I crossed quickly to the cupboard and found them all exactly where I’d left them. There were the books and the jade paperweight, the white raven and the milk-glass angel smiling secretly into the shadows.
    Then something strangely upsetting occurred. I began to tremble. My knees buckled and the tips of my fingers grew icy cold. I had a sensation of falling. Then a sickening vertigo. So intense an experience