How?"
"The dog, the shaggy dog. At noon, he steals off, of himself, to changehis shape--returns, and lies down awhile, nigh the door. Don't you seehim? His head is turned round at you; though, when you came, he lookedbefore him."
"Your eyes rest but on your work; what do you speak of?"
"By the window, crossing."
"You mean this shaggy shadow--the nigh one? And, yes, now that I markit, it is not unlike a large, black Newfoundland dog. The invadingshadow gone, the invaded one returns. But I do not see what casts it."
"For that, you must go without."
"One of those grassy rocks, no doubt."
"You see his head, his face?"
"The shadow's? You speak as if _you_ saw it, and all the time your eyesare on your work."
"Tray looks at you," still without glancing up; "this is his hour; I seehim."
"Have you then, so long sat at this mountain-window, where but cloudsand, vapors pass, that, to you, shadows are as things, though you speakof them as of phantoms; that, by familiar knowledge, working like asecond sight, you can, without looking for them, tell just where theyare, though, as having mice-like feet, they creep about, and come andgo; that, to you, these lifeless shadows are as living friends, who,though out of sight, are not out of mind, even in their faces--is itso?"
"That way I never thought of it. But the friendliest one, that used tosoothe my weariness so much, coolly quivering on the ferns, it was takenfrom me, never to return, as Tray did just now. The shadow of a birch.The tree was struck by lightning, and brother cut it up. You saw thecross-pile out-doors--the buried root lies under it; but not the shadow.That is flown, and never will come back, nor ever anywhere stir again."
Another cloud here stole along, once more blotting out the dog, andblackening all the mountain; while the stillness was so still, deafnessmight have forgot itself, or else believed that noiseless shadow spoke.
