r door, opened it, and returned to fling herself in
abandonment of fatigue upon her tiny couch.

As accompaniment to her slumbers the lapping of the tide against the
house-boat steps made a soft, incessant music, while the swishing of
reeds by the river bank sighed a sweet response to the whispered
endearments of the wind. On the air still floated drowsily the sound of
strings from guitars, and the muffled echo of voices that sang in other
house-boats farther down the stream. Then by degrees, within the space
of an half-hour, came a greater hush--the hush of a sleeping world worn
out with laughter and laziness.

* * * * *

And Maud Rolleston, dreaming, grew paler under the moonbeams that peered
through the lace shroudings of the narrow window. She sighed sometimes
in her sleep, now and again lifting her head upon an elbow, as though to
look out on the expanse of water that purled almost silently to its
inevitable future. Her eyes were open, expressionless, but tearful. In
the crystal seemed a reflection of the water's suddenly ruffled surface
which the moon was dappling with points of silver....

By and by she put her feet to the ground, hesitatingly at first, and
then gliding through the open door, she stood on an old Moorish
prayer-carpet that covered the head of the steps. Two nautilus shells
holding their burden of giant mignonette shielded her from the air; but
it broke at times fragrantly from the scented forest of blossoms.

With a lily in her hand, backgrounded thus by stars and midnight, she
might have represented a virgin saint on a missal, but her arms were
bare and extended, and she seemed rather to be a prophetess, a sybil,
uttering invocation.

Her lips scarce moved, but they sighed a name, "Basil."

The ruffled waters, at the steps of the boat, swayed and parted. The
visage of a dead man looked out from the depths to her. His hair hung
lank about his brow, the tide washed it along in passing, as it washed
the weeds from the face of the lilies.

"Basil," she murmured.

"You called to me? Or was it but the haunting of a name that once did
melt like honey from your lip?"

"I called...."

"Was it the wail of love?--Ah no, perchance it was a sigh--the pitiful
sigh of happiness compassionate--happiness regretting sorrow?..."

"It was love alone that cried."

"Searching?"

"And finding not!"

"But why doth love cry here--here by the wet tomb of dead men? what may