The darkness was vibrant, keen, alive. It throbbed with consciousness, with mysterious fibres of communication. There was no sense of a presence in the room, nor even the possibility of a presence. It was vague, abstract, yet curiously definite.

Edith woke from a troubled dream with a start. For a moment she lay quietly and listened, not afraid, but interested, as though upon the threshold of some new experience. The scurrying feet of mice made a ghostly patter in the attic, above her room, and a vagrant wind, in passing, tapped at her window with the fairy-like fingers of the vine that clung to the wall.

Otherwise all was still, and yet the darkness trembled with expectancy. Something hitherto unknown seemed to have entered her consciousness, some thought, emotion, instinct, or what? Wide awake, staring into space, she lay there, wondering, waiting, not in the least frightened, but assured of shelter and of peace.

Gradually she had lost consciousness of her body. She had relaxed completely and her mind soared, free. She moved one foot, cautiously, to see whether her body was still there, and smiled when she was reassured by the cool smoothness of the linen sheet, and the other warm little foot she touched in moving.

Somewhere, in this same darkness, was another personality. Of so much she eventually became sure. It was not in the room, perhaps not even in the house, but for someone else, somewhere, was this same sense—of communication? No, but rather the possibility of it.

Someone else had also lost consciousness of the body. Another mind, released for the moment from its earthly prison, sought communion with hers. Was this death, and had she wakened in another world? She moved her foot again, pressed her hand to the warm softness of her breast, felt her breath come and go, and even the steady beating of her heart. Not death, then, only a pause, in which for once the body, clamorous and imperious with its thousand needs, had given way to the soul.

The curious sense of another personality persisted. Was this other person dead, and striving mutely for expression? No, surely not, for this other mind was on the same plane as hers, subject to the same conditions. Not disembodied entirely, but only relaxed, as she was, this other personality had wakened and found itself gloriously free.

A perception of fineness followed. Not everyone was capable of this, and the conviction brought a pleasant sense of superiority. Above the sordid world, in some higher realm of space and thought, they two had met, and saluted one another.

For the first time Edith thought of her body as something separate from herself, and in the light of a necessary—or unnecessary—evil. This new self neither hungered nor thirsted nor grew weary; it knew neither cold nor heat nor illness; pain, like a fourth dimension, was out of its comprehension, it required neither clothes nor means of transportation, it simply went, as the wind might, by its own power, when and where it chose.

Whose mind was it? Was it someone she knew, or someone she was yet to meet? And in what bodily semblance did it dwell, when it was housed in its prison? Was it a woman, or a man? Not a woman—Edith instantly dismissed the idea, for this sense of another personality carried with it not the feeling of duality or likeness, but of difference, of divine completion.

Some man she knew, or whom she was to know, freed for the moment from his earthly environment, roamed celestial ways with her. She was certain that it was not lasting, that, at the best, it could be of very brief duration, and this fact of impermanence was the very essence of its charm, like life itself.

The clock down-stairs began to strike—one, two, three—four. It was the hour of the night when life is at its lowest, the point on the flaming arc of human existence where it touches the shadow of the unknown, softening into death or brightening into life according to the swing of the pendulum. Then, if ever, the mind and body would be apart, Edith thought, for when the physical forces sink, the spirit must rise to keep the balance true.

Who was the man? Her husband? No, for they were too far apart to meet like this. She idly went over the list of her men acquaintances—old schoolmates, friends of her husband's, husbands of her friends, as one might call the roll of an assembly, expecting someone to rise and answer "Here."

Yet it was all in vain, though she felt herself on the right track and approaching a definite solution. The darkness clung about her like a living thing. It throbbed as the air may when a wireless instrument answers another, leagues away; it was as eloquent of communication as a network of telephone and telegraph wires, submerged in midnight, yet laden with portent of life and death.

She sat up in bed, straining every nerve to the point where all senses unite in one. "Who are you?" Her lips did not move, but the thought seemed to have the sound of thunder in its imperious demand. Tangled fibres of communication noiselessly wove themselves through the darkness, and again all her soul merged itself into one question—"Who? For God's sake, who?"

Then, after a tense instant of waiting, the answer flashed upon her, vivid as lightning: "Alden Marsh!"

And swiftly, as though in response to a call, a definite, conscious thought from the other personality presented itself: "Yes? What would you have of me?"

Edith lay back among her pillows, as the clock struck the half hour. The body, as though resentful of denial, urged itself swiftly upon her now. Her heart beat tumultuously, her hands shook, she thrilled from head to foot with actual physical pain. The darkness no longer seemed alive, but negative and dead, holding somewhere in its merciful depths the promise of rest.

Utterly exhausted, she closed her eyes and slept, to be roused by a tap at her door.

"Yes," she answered, drowsily, "come in!"

Madame came in, pulled up the shades and flooded the room with sunshine. "I'm sorry if I've disturbed you, dear, but I was afraid you were ill. I've been here twice before."

Edith sat up and rubbed her eyes. "What time is it?"

"Half-past nine."

"Oh, I'm so sorry! You mustn't spoil me this way, for I do want to get up to breakfast. Why didn't you call me?"

Madame sat down on the side of the bed and patted Edith's outstretched hand with affectionate reassurance. "You're to do just as you please," she said, "but I was beginning to worry a bit, for you've been the soul of punctuality."

"Did—" Edith closed her lips firmly upon the instinctive question, "Did he miss me?" She dismissed it as the mere vapouring of a vacant brain.

"Did what?" asked Madame, helpfully.

"Did you miss me?"

"Of course. Alden did too. The last thing he said before he went to school was that he hoped you were not ill."

"That was nice of him." Edith put a small pink foot out of bed on the other side and gazed at it pensively. Madame laughed.

"I don't believe you've grown up," she said. "You remind me of a small child, who has just discovered her toes. Do you want your breakfast up here?"

"No, I'll come down. Give me half an hour and I'll appear before you, clothed and in my right mind, with as humble an apology for my sins as I'm able to compose in the meantime."

She was as good as her word, appearing promptly at the time she had set, and dressed for the street. After doing justice to a hearty breakfast, she said that she was going out for a walk and probably would not be back to luncheon.

"My dear!" exclaimed Madame. "You mustn't do that. I'll have luncheon kept for you."

"No, please don't, for I really shan't want any. Didn't you observe my breakfast? Even a piano-mover couldn't think of eating again before seven, so let me go a-gypsying till sunset."

Madame nodded troubled acquiescence, and, with a laugh, Edith kissed her good-bye. "I'm subject to the Wander-lust," she said, "and when the call comes, I have to go. It's in my blood to-day, so farewell for the present."

Madame watched her as she went down the street, the golden quill on her green hat bidding jaunty defiance to the wind. As she had said, she felt the call at times, and had to yield to its imperative summons, but to-day it was her soul that craved the solace of the open spaces and the wind-swept fields.

As she dressed, she had tried to dismiss last night's experience as a mere fantasy of sleep, or, if not an actual dream, some vision hailing from the borderland of consciousness, at the point where the senses merge. Yet, even as she argued with herself, she felt the utter futility of it, and knew her denials were vain in the face of truth.

She dreaded the necessity of meeting Alden again, then made a wry face at her own foolishness. "Ridiculous," she said to herself, "preposterous, absurd!" No matter what her own nightmares might be, he slept soundly—of course he did. How could healthy youth with a clear conscience do otherwise?

For an hour or more, she kept to the streets of the village, with the sublime unconsciousness of the city-bred, too absorbed in her own thoughts to know that she was stared at and freely commented upon by those to whom a stranger was a source of excitement. Her tailored gown, of dark green broadcloth, the severe linen shirtwaist, and her simple hat, were subjects of conversation that night in more than one humble home, fading into insignificance only before her radiant hair. The general opinion was that it must be a wig, or the untoward results of some experiment with hair-dye, probably the latter, for, as the postmaster's wife said, "nobody would buy a wig of that colour."

The school bell rang for dismissal, and filled her with sudden panic. After walking through the village all the morning to escape luncheon with Alden, it would be disagreeable to meet him face to face almost at the schoolhouse door. Turning in the opposite direction, she walked swiftly until she came to a hill, upon which an irregular path straggled half-heartedly upward.

So Edith climbed the Hill of the Muses, pausing several times to rest. When she reached the top, she was agreeably surprised to find a comfortable seat waiting her, even though it was only a log rolled back against two trees. She sank back into the hollow, leaned against the supporting oak, and wiped her flushed face.

Others had been there before her, evidently, for the turf was worn around the log, and there were even hints of footprints here and there. "Some rural trysting place, probably," she thought, then a gleam of scarlet caught her attention. A small red book had fallen into the crevice between the log and the other tree. "The House of Life," she murmured, under her breath. "Now, who in this little village would—unless——"

The book bore neither name nor initials, but almost every page was marked. As it happened, most of them were favourite passages of her own. "How idyllic!" she mused; "a pair of young lovers reading Rossetti on a hill-top in Spring! Could anything be more pastoral? I'll take it back to the house and tell about it at dinner."

She welcomed it as a sure relief from a possible awkward moment. "I knew I was right," she said to herself, as she turned the pages. "To-day was set aside, long ago, for me to go a-gypsying."

The clear air of the heights and the sunlit valley beneath her gave her a sense of proportion and of value which she realised she had sadly needed. Free from the annoyances of her daily life, she could look back upon it with due perspective, and see that her unhappiness had been largely caused by herself.

"I can't be miserable," she thought, "unless I'm willing to be."

She sat there for a long time, heedless of the passing hours. She was roused from her reverie by a muffled footstep and an involuntary exclamation of astonishment.

"Why, how do you do, Miss Starr?" said Edith, kindly, offering a well-gloved hand. "Are you out gypsying too?"

"Yes," Rosemary stammered. Her eyes were fixed upon the small red book that Mrs. Lee held in her other hand.

"See what I found," Edith went on, heedlessly. "Rossetti's House of Life, up here. Boy Blue must have brought it up to read to Bo-Peep in the intervals of shepherding. There may not be any such word as 'shepherding,' but there ought to be, I love to make words, don't you?"

"Yes," said Rosemary, helplessly. She had thought Alden had the book, but had forgotten to make sure, and now the most precious hours of her life had been invaded and her shrines laid bare. Was it not enough for this woman to live in the same house with Alden? Need she take possession of the Hill of the Muses and the little book which had first awakened her, then brought them together? Resentful anger burned in her cheeks, all the more pitiful because of Mrs. Lee's utter unconsciousness, and the impossibility of reparation, even had she known.

"Sit down," Edith suggested. "You must be tired. It's a long climb."

"Did—did you come up here to—to meet anyone?" The suspicion broke hotly from Rosemary's pale lips.

Edith might have replied that she came up to avoid meeting anyone, but she only said, with cool astonishment: "Why, no. Why should I?"

There was no answer to that. Indeed, thought Rosemary, floundering helplessly in a sea of pain, there was no reason. Was she not in the same house with him, day in and day out?

"She's married," Rosemary said to herself with stern insistence, trying to find comfort in the thought, but comfort strangely failed now. Another suspicion assailed her and was instantly put into headlong speech. "Is your husband dead, or are you divorced?"

Mrs. Lee turned quickly. She surveyed the girl calmly for an instant, entirely unable to translate her evident confusion; then she rose.

"Neither," she returned, icily, "and if there are no other personal questions you desire to ask me, I'll go back."

Rosemary kept back the tears until Mrs. Lee was out of sight. "She's married," she sobbed, "and he isn't dead, and they're not divorced, so why—oh, why?" The pain unreasonably persisted, taking to itself a fresh hold. She had offended Mrs. Lee and she would tell Alden, and Alden would be displeased and would never forgive her.

If she were to run after her, and apologise, assuring her that she had not meant the slightest offence, perhaps—. She stumbled to her feet, but, even as she did so, she knew that it was too late. She longed with all the passion of her desolate soul for Alden's arms around her, for only the touch of his hand or the sound of his voice, saying: "Rosemary! Rosemary dear!" But it was too late for that also—everything came too late!

By the time she reached the foot of the hill Edith had understood and pardoned Rosemary. "Poor child," she thought. "Think of her loving him, and actually being jealous of me! And, man-like, of course, he's never noticed it. For her sake, I hope he won't."

She waited to gather a spray or two of wild crab-apple blossoms, then went home. She did not see Alden, but stopped to exchange a few words with Madame, then went on up-stairs. The long walk had wearied her, but it had also made her more lovely. After an hour of rest and a cool shower, she was ready to dress for dinner.

She chose a dinner-gown of white embroidered chiffon that she had not yet worn. It was cut away a little at the throat and the sleeves came to the elbow. She was not in the mood for jewels, but she clasped a string of pearls around her perfect throat, and put the crab-apple blossoms in her hair. The experiment was rather daring, but wholly successful, as she took care to have green leaves between her hair and the blossoms.

When she went down, Madame and Alden were waiting for her, Alden in evening clothes as usual and Madame in her lavender gown.

"You look like a nymph of Botticelli's," commented Alden, with a smile. There was no trace of confusion, or even of consciousness in his manner, and, once again, Edith reproached herself for her foolishness.

Dinner was cheerful, though not lively. Once or twice, Edith caught Alden looking at her with a strange expression on his face. Madame chattered on happily, of the vineyard and the garden and the small household affairs that occupied her attention.

Afterward, Alden read the paper and the other two played cribbage. It was only a little after nine when Madame, concealing a yawn, announced that she was tired and would go to bed, if she might be excused.

Edith rose with alacrity. "I'll come, too," she said. "It's astonishing how sleepy it makes one to be outdoors."

"Don't," Madame protested. "We mustn't leave him entirely alone. You can sleep late to-morrow morning if you choose."

"Please don't leave me alone, Mrs. Lee," pleaded Alden, rather wickedly.

"All right," Edith answered, accepting the inevitable as gracefully as she might. "Shall I play solitaire while you read the paper?"

"If you like," he replied.

Madame took her candle and bade them good-night. As she went up-stairs, Edith said, with a pout: "I wish I were going to bed too."

"You can't sleep all the time," he reminded her. The paper had slipped to the floor. "Mother tells me that you slept this morning until half-past nine."

"Yes—but—." She bit her lips and the colour rose to her temples. She hastily shuffled the cards and began to play solitaire so rapidly that he wondered whether she knew what cards she was playing.

"But," he said, "you didn't sleep well last night. Was that what you were going to say?"

Edith dropped her cards, and looked him straight in the face. "I slept perfectly," she lied. "Didn't you?"

"I slept just as well as you did," he answered. She thought she detected a shade of double meaning in his tone.

"I had a long walk to-day," she went on, "and it made me sleepy. Look," she continued, going to the mantel where she had left the book. "See what I found on top of a hill, in a crevice between an oak and a log that lay against it. Do you think some pair of rural lovers left it there?"

"Possibly," he replied. If the sight of the book he had loaned Rosemary awoke any emotion, or even a memory, he did not show it. "Sit down," he suggested, imperturbably, "and let me see if I can't find a sonnet that fits you. Yes, surely—here it is. Listen."

She rested her head upon her hand and turned her face away from him. In his smooth, well-modulated voice, he read:

HER GIFTS

Her heart beat wildly and her colour came and went, but, with difficulty, she controlled herself until he reached the end. When she rose, he rose also, dropping the book.

"Mrs. Lee—Edith!"

"Yes," she said, with a supreme effort at self-command, "it is a pretty name, isn't it?" She was very pale, but she offered him her hand. "I really must go now," she continued, "for I am tired. Thank you—and good-night."

Alden did not answer—in words. He took the hand she offered him, held it firmly in his own, stooped, and kissed the hollow of her elbow, just below the sleeve.