Now 'tis very late, Dawn is the next event to consider, candles have been allow'd to burn all the way out, no one has uncork'd a Bottle in some while, Tenebras slumbers beneath the Canopy of the Chinese Sofa, whilst her Cousins, sprawl'd in Chairs, are intermittently awake and listening. All seems to them interrupted by Enigmata, blown thro' as by Winds it is generally better not to be out in.
"What I cannot quite see to the end of," confesses Euphrenia, "is Mason's Return to America,— abruptly,— as if, unable to desert his Family again, what choice has he, this time, but to present them with the sudden voyage by sea, and carry them all to Philadelphia. Yet, what could have brought him here again?"
"Or else,— What frighten'd him away from Gloucestershire?"
"Plague? There was ever Plague. The weight of Rebekah's Ghost? How, if she were content to have him in Sapperton? Unless—
"She came at last to wish him gone? Even at the Price of knowing they would never be buried together,— as he must also have known,— yet at the end she could not abide him as he had come to be, and so she turn'd terrible, as she had ever been a shadow's Edge away from doing anyway. The fear,— the Resolve? Poor Mason. He gather'd them all with the force of his Belief,—
"Poh. 'Twas madness."
"You have look'd upon madness, have you, young 'Thelmer?”
"Any Saturday night down at the Hospital, Sir, a Spanish Dollar to the Warder purchases you more entertainment than your Ribs may bear, my Guarantee upon it."
"What! Bedlam in America! Mind yourself, lad."
When the Hook of Night is well set, and when all the Children are at last irretrievably detain'd within their Dreams, slowly into the Room begin to walk the Black servants, the Indian poor, the Irish runaways, the Chinese Sailors, the overflow'd from the mad Hospital, all uncho-sen Philadelphia,— as if something outside, beyond the cold Wind, had driven them to this extreme of seeking refuge. They bring their Scars, their Pox-pitted Cheeks, their Burdens and Losses, their fever?ish Eyes, their proud fellowship in a Mobility that is to be, whose shape none inside this House may know. Lomax wakes, sweating, from a poi-son'd Dream. Euphrenia has ascended the back Stairs, as the former Zab Cherrycoke those in front, to Slumber. Ethelmer and DePugh, Brae and the Twins, have all vanish'd back into the Innocence of Unconsciousness now. Ives is off at his Midnight Junto,— only Mr. LeSpark and the Revd remain. The Room continues to fill up, the Dawn not to arrive.
And if it all were nought but Madmen's Sleep?
The Years we all believ'd were real and deep
As Lives, as Sorrows, bearing us each one
Blindly along our Line's relentless Run
"Who was that," Lomax LeSpark in a stuporously low-level Panick. "I know that Voice...."
"He's in here!" his brother Wade marvels. Blurry as a bat in this candle-stump flicker, "? - Damme. How's he do it? He's suppos'd to be either in Chains, or out upon the Roads. Not in this House."
"Have a Cup, Tim," the Revd offering his Brother-in-Law's best Ser-cial. "Ever fancied the opening Lines to Book One, m'self—"
"You mean," the Poet nodding in thanks,

At Penn's Ascension of the Delaware, Savages from the banks covertly stare, As at the Advent of some puissant Prince, Before whom, Chaos reign'd, and Order since—"
Proceeding, then, to recite the Pennsylvaniad, sotto Voce as he wan?ders the Room, among the others, the untold others—
"Will you be leaving before Christmas, Wicks?"
"What do I say? Your Servant, Sir."
"I meant, that I should welcome your Company, as your Mediation, in visiting with Mr. Mason's widow and Children, if they are yet in Town,
tho' I am d——'d if I can see how to do it much before Epiphany, there
being an Alarm Clock even next my Chamber-Pot, these Days."
"Thanks to the American Society, they are here, and car'd for. I have heard that Mrs. Mason will return to England with the younger Children, whilst William and Doctor Isaac will remain."
"Then I should like to meet them, in particular. Perhaps I may find a way to help."
"Brother, you have Moments."
"Aye,— we call 'em Philadelphia Minutes."
On entering Mason's Rooms at The George Tavern, Franklin is greeted by an Odor he knows and would rather not have found. He resists the impulse to take out his Watch, ever Comforter and Scripture to him. He hears Children, gather'd somewhere in their own Rectangle invisible. Mary stands before a window looking upon an Alley-way. "What a des?perate Night it's been. I don't know if he really wants to see you, or if it's more of his Illness. He sleeps now, but he's dreaming and talking, so I expect he'll be with us soon."
"I receiv'd his Letter— Having this year been much vex'd...this godawful disintegration of Power...'twas only now,— but forgive me, Mrs. Mason,— I whine."
She sinks with a sidewise contraction of her body onto a Couch design'd more to encourage the Illusions of Youth, than to console the Certainties of Age. Outside rackets the Traffic of Second Street.
"Please excuse me if I do not immediately sit,— at eighty, it requires some advance work,— so, my Sympathies must precede me."
She manages for him a Smile, whose muscular Cost he can feel in his own Face. He leans upon his Cane. "We met in times easily as dark as these,— we transacted honorably some items of Philosophick Busi?ness,— I put him up for Fellow in our American Society, tho' his desires were ever fix'd upon the Royal. He wanted them so to want him as a Member. We were but colonials, amusing enough in our way,— and of course he was touch'd,— yet, Philadelphia is not London."
"Upon Rebekah's Tomb-Stone he has put 'F.A.S.' after his own Name. So it means much to him. I expect you are surpriz'd, at,"— gesturing behind her as a wife might at her house, half apologizing, half welcom?ing,— "yet 'twas over-night." One moment they were at their own Table, in from cotes and stone walls and mud lanes,— the Loaf steaming, the Dishes going 'round,— the next, they were all in some kind of great loud Waggon, bound for Southampton. Money they'd had sav'd...
"But why?"
"I ask'd him why, ev'ry day, till I saw it was making him worse. 'We must go to America,'— that was nearly all he'd say. He has a way of saying 'America,' in his Father's Voice. Rrr. 'We all must go togetherrr.' Is it for leaving William and Doctor Isaac behind, all those years ago? I would gladly have remain'd in England with the Children, but at my age, Sir, it is a terrible choice. To find, and sweep from the last Corners of Sapperton and Stroud,— from Bisley!— some pitiful little heap of Mercy, or to remain with him and his Madness, which grows ever less hopeful, in our utter dependence upon the Board of Longitude. Praise Heaven, a fine Choice."
"Surely the Royal Society,—
"Alas. Tho' he has friends there,— the Reverend Maskelyne has been truly gentle with Charles, has remain'd by him ever,— Charles believes inflexibly that the Society could not forgive him the Letters he wrote them from Plymouth, so long ago now,— that too many resented him for speak?ing up then, for daring, from his lower Station, to suggest another Plan."
To speak of the final seven years, between Dixon's death and Mason's, is to speculate, to uncertain avail. Obituaries mention a long descent, "suf- fering, for several years, melancholy aberrations of mind." His illness at the end was never stipulated. Yet 'tis possible, after all, down here, to die of Melancholy.
He had return'd to his earthly Father, yet never reconcil'd,— in his Will, Charles forgave Mason the price of the Loaf he'd taken ev'ry Day for his Table, and that was all. Mason had married again, and become the father of five more boys and a girl, yet he never put Rebekah to Earth...tho' she herself, to appearance, might at last sigh, relax, and move on,— one would think,— with Old Mopery come to rest where he'd started out from. It is the way journeymen became masters, and the ingenuous wise,— it is a musickal piece returning to its Tonick Home. Nothing more would be expected of him now, than some quiet Coda.
His efforts at refining the Longitude tables of Mayer avoided any risk of looking into the real Sky,— as if, against his father's wishes having once studied the Stars, now, too late, he were renouncing them,— tho' he got out under the Heavens ev'ry now and then, sometimes alone, usually with children along, for whom he adjusted Oculars and Screws, and peer'd only rarely, gingerly, Star-ward.
As Rebekah withdrew into Silence eventually complete, Mason's Melancholy deepen'd. If she was no longer to be found in Sapperton,— if he insisted that her Silence be Rejection, and not Contentment,— that may have help'd push him away, back to America,— whatever it was, his despair by then was greater than Mary had ever seen, or could account for. "I thought I knew him a little,— Children all over the place, Charlie bent over his logarithms all night, a new Stomach Onset arriving with each Post,—
Doctor Isaac had had his Father back for ten years, yet still he relied upon Willy to help him along, as his older Brother had ever done, com?ing to accept it as naturally as the Day. "He will never speak of her," Willy said once. "Nor will Aunt Hester, much."
"They ought to, you know? It isn't fair. It's as if they're asham'd of her for something. Grandfather, when he is displeas'd with me, says that I—
"I heard him. He should never have said that."
"And he said I was nam'd after the Doctor who lost her. That Dad hated me that much, he wanted it always on me, like a notch upon a Pig's Ear.”
"Grandfather is a sour and beggarly old fool. You are nam'd for New?ton, whom Dad admires greatly."
Neither has ever denied the other his direct gaze. "Who told you 'twas Newton?" Doc keeps on, finely quivering, resolute.
"Aunt Hettie."
"On your Oath, Will."
"Ask her."
"I did. Mindful as ever, she went on, as, 'The name may've come up. Who knows? Your Father talks unendingly, but I can't recall much of anything he's said,— So now, I really shall have to take your sworn Word, Willy. And hope you do understand, how serious this is."
"How,— should I ever lie to you? 'Tis I,— remember me? the taller one?"
Without considering, Doc reaches up, for the Hand that is not there,— finding his brother's shoulder instead, which will have to do.
When news reach'd Mason that Dixon had died, he went about for the rest of the Day as if himself stricken. "I'd meant to see him this Sum?mer," he repeated over and over. At last, "I must go up there."
"I'll come with you," offer'd Doctor Isaac.
"The Boy works for his Bread," the elder Mason growl'd, "— he's not a Man of Science,— leave him be."
"Hire a Weaver for a Se'nnight,— there are plenty of them to choose from. I'll pay ye back any sum it loses ye."
"With what? Stardust?"
Presently, curses ringing in their Ears, Mason and his son were out upon the North Road together, bundl'd against the Cold, stopping in at ev'ry Tavern upon the Way. Mason, for some reason, found himself unable to stop looking at Doc, recalling that the Lad had never been out of these Hills, nor even down to Oxford. Out on the Road like this, he seem'd sud?denly no longer a Child. They stopt overnight in Birmingham, and again in York, they ate and drank with Waggoners and Fugitives and commer?cial travelers.
As they lie side by side in bed, Mason finds he cannot refrain from telling his Son bedtime stories about Dixon.
"He was ever seeking to feel something he'd hitherto not felt. In Philadelphia he was fascinated by Dr. Franklin's Leyden Jar, as with the Doctor's curious History, cheerfully admitted to, of self-electrocution thereby, on more Occasions than he can now remember...."
"Here's the Lumina of the Lab," leading the Surveyors among Globes of Glass, Insulators of Porcelain, a Miniature Forge, a Magnetizing Sta?tion, Gear-trains of Lignum Vitae, and Engine out of which protrudes a great Crank, Bench-tops strewn with Lenses, Lamps, Alembicks, Retorts, Condensers, Coils,— at length to a squatly inelegant wide-mouth'd Vessel, in a dark corner of the Work-room. "Three-inch Sparks from this Contrivance are routine. And when ye hook a Line of 'em up,s in Cascade? Well. Many's the time I've found myself out upon the Pave?ment, no memory of Removal from where I'd been, and a Hole in the Brick Wall between, about my Size and Shape. Here now, just take hold of this Terminal,—
Mason, aghast of course, and not about to touch any Terminal, with?draws, upon the Pretext of Business with Dr. Franklin's Assistant, a gnomelike Stranger nam'd Ingvarr, whose unsettling Grin and reluctance to speak provoke from Mason increasingly desperate Monologue,— whilst for his part, Dixon is eagerly hastening to handle all the Apparatus he can find, that might have Electrick Fluid running thro' it.
"EEHH aye, thah' was a good one! And here, whah's this, with the three great Springs coomin' out?"
"Ah. Yes, two go into the Ears, thus,— and the other, with this Y-Adapter, into your...Nostrils, there we are! Now, then!"
"Master! Master!" Ingvarr scuttling near.
"Not now, Ingvarr.. .unless of course you'd like to assist in a lit?tle.. .Spark-length Calibration?"
"Aiyee! No, Master!"
"There now Ingvarr, 'tis but a couple of Toes,— callus'd quite well I see, more than enough to withstand the 'lecktrick Tension...try not to squirm, there's a good fellow,—
"It tickles!"
"Fine with me, as Howard says to Howard, only please try not to kick that Switch to the main Battery, lest Mr. Dixon,— oh, dear.—  Ingvarr. What did I just say?”
So forcefully that his Queue-Tie breaks with a loud Snap, Dixon's Hair springs erect, each Strand a right Line pointing outward along a perfect Radius from the Center of his Head. What might be call'd a Smile, is yet asymmetrick, and a-drool. His Eyeballs, upon inspection, are seen to rotate in opposite Senses, and at differing Speeds. Releasing Ingvarr, who makes himself scarce, Franklin opens the Switch at last, and Dixon staggers to a Settee. "Sir," the Doctor in some concern, "I trust you've not been inconvenienc'd unduly?"
"Suppose I us'd Tin-Foil," Dixon, upon his back, replies, "— instead of Silver,— how many of these Jars should I need, to...reproduce that Effect?"
Next morning, at Breakfast, Doc is curious to know, "Did you ever cast his Horoscope?"
"Quite early on, tho' I never told him. His natal Moon, in Aquarius...? and in Leo, the sign of his Birth, he's bless'd with a Stellium, of Mercury, Venus, and Mars,— Mars being also conjunct his Sun,— tho' both are regrettably squar'd Jupiter and Saturn. His Bread, that is, ever by the sweat of his brow...so did it prove to be,— yet Vis Martis enough, and
more, for the Journey He may've done my Horo on the sly, for all I
know. Rum thing not to know of someone, isn't it? But he knew how to
cast a Chart, and had the current Year's Ephemeris by Memory
Damme, he knew his Astronomy,— tho' I teas'd him with it now and then....
"Meant to bring you to see him one day. He'd heard enough about you...."
"You spoke of me?"
"You, Willy, the Babies. We talk'd about our Children. He had two Girls, young Women I should say,—
"Arrh.. .and you were hoping...?"
"Who? What? D'you take me for a Village Busybody such as your Aunt Hettie?"
"Two Sons," explains Doc, "Two Daughters. And a Father wishing, as Fathers do, to be a Grand-Father."
"Sure of that?”
"Mason-Dixon Gran............