le breath of wind
arose, carrying the sweet scent of the roses across to her, and playing
in the tops of the slender, graceful palms which grew in numbers on the
banks of the river and in the fields around.

She had so often admired these beautiful trees, and compared them to
dancing-girls, as she watched the wind seizing their heavy tops and
swaying the slender stems backwards and forwards. And she had often said
to herself that here must be the home of the Phoenix, that wonderful bird
from the land of palms, who, the priests said, came once in every five
hundred years to the temple of Ra in Heliopolis and burnt himself in the
sacred incense-flames, only to rise again from his own ashes more
beautiful than before, and, after three days, to fly back again to his
home in the East. While she was thinking of this bird, and wishing that
she too might rise again from the ashes of her unhappiness to a new and
still more glorious joy, a large bird with brilliant plumage rose out of
the dark cypresses, which concealed the palace of the man she loved and
who had made her so miserable, and flew towards her. It rose higher and
higher, and at last settled on a palmtree close to her window. She had
never seen such a bird before, and thought it could not possibly be a
usual one, for a little gold chain was fastened to its foot, and its tail
seemed made of sunbeams instead of feathers. It must be Benno, the bird
of Ra! She fell on her knees again and sang with deep reverence the
ancient hymn to the Phoenix, never once turning her eyes from the
brilliant bird.

The bird listened to her singing, bending his little head with its waving
plumes, wisely and inquisitively from side to side, and flew away
directly she ceased. Nitetis looked after him with a smile. It was really
only a bird of paradise that had broken the chain by which he had been
fastened to a tree in the park, but to her he was the Phoenix. A strange
certainty of deliverance filled her heart; she thought the god Ra had
sent the bird to her, and that as a happy spirit she should take that
form. So long as we are able to hope and wish, we can bear a great deal
of sorrow; if the wished-for happiness does not come, anticipation is at
least prolonged and has its own peculiar sweetness. This feeling is of
itself enough, and contains a kind of enjoyment which can take the place
of reality. Though she was so weary, yet she lay down on her couch with
fresh hopes, and fell into a dr