Suan Isco, the kindest of the kind, was gone down stairs at last, for which I felt ungrateful gratitude--because she had been doing her best to charm away my pain by low, monotonous Indian ditties, which made it ten times worse; and yet I could not find heart to tell her so.
Now it must have been past six o'clock in the evening of the November day when the avalanche slid off my head, and I was able to lift it.

The light of the west had been faint, and was dead; though often it used to prolong our day by the backward glance of the ocean.

With pangs of youthful hunger, but a head still weak and dazy, I groped my way in the dark through the passage and down the stairs of redwood.
At the bottom, where a railed landing was, and the door opened into the house-room, I was surprised to find that, instead of the usual cheerful company enjoying themselves by the fire-light, there were only two people present.

The Sawyer sat stiffly in his chair of state, delaying even the indulgence of his pipe, and having his face set sternly, as I had never before beheld it.

In the visitor's corner, as we called it, where people sat to dry themselves, there was a man, and only one.
Something told me that I had better keep back and not disturb them.