I called softly, but there was no answer, and I was called no more as I stood still.
"Oswald, Oswald!" I had turned to go on my way when it came this time, and now I could have sworn that I knew the voice, though whose it was I could not say.
"Who calls me," I cried, facing round.
Then a chill that was not of cold wind and snow fell on me, for there was silence, and into my mind crept the knowledge of where I had last heard that voice.

It was long years ago--at Eastdean in half-forgotten Sussex.
"Father!" I cried.

"Father!" There was no reply, and I stood there for what seemed a long time waiting one.

I called again and again in vain.
"It is weakness," I said to myself at last, and turned.
At once the voice was wailing, with some wild terror as it seemed, at my very shoulder, with its cry of my name, and I must needs turn once more sharply: "Oswald, Oswald!" My foot struck a stone as I wheeled round, and it grated on others and seemed to stop.

But as I listened for the voice I heard a crash, and yet another, and at last a far-off rumble that was below my very feet, and I sprang with a cry away from the sound, for I knew that I stood on the very brink of some gulf.