s, like a bright
vapour rising from earth, clung to the air above the beds. Leaning
against the tree Miltoun gave himself to memory.

From the silent boughs which drooped round his dark figure, a little
sleepy bird uttered a faint cheep; a hedgehog, or some small beast of
night, rustled away in the grass close by; a moth flew past, seeking its
candle flame. And something in Miltoun's heart took wings after it,
searching for the warmth and light of his blown candle of love. Then, in
the hush he heard a sound as of a branch ceaselessly trailed through long
grass, fainter and fainter, more and more distinct; again fainter; but
nothing could he see that should make that homeless sound. And the sense
of some near but unseen presence crept on him, till the hair moved on his
scalp. If God would light the moon or stars, and let him see! If God
would end the expectation of this night, let one wan glimmer down into
her garden, and one wan glimmer into his breast! But it stayed dark, and
the homeless noise never ceased. The weird thought came to Miltoun that
it was made by his own heart, wandering out there, trying to feel warm
again. He closed his eyes and at once knew that it was not his heart,
but indeed some external presence, unconsoled. And stretching his hands
out he moved forward to arrest that sound. As he reached the railing, it
ceased. And he saw a flame leap up, a pale broad pathway of light
blanching the grass.

And, realizing that she was there, within, he gasped. His fingernails
bent and broke against the iron railing without his knowing. It was not
as on that night when the red flowers on her windowsill had wafted their
scent to him; it was no sheer overpowering rush of passion. Profounder,
more terrible, was this rising up within him of yearning for love--as if,
now defeated, it would nevermore stir, but lie dead on that dark grass
beneath those dark boughs. And if victorious--what then? He stole back
under the tree.

He could see little white moths travelling down that path of lamplight;
he could see the white flowers quite plainly now, a pale watch of
blossoms guarding the dark sleepy ones; and he stood, not reasoning,
hardly any longer feeling; stunned, battered by struggle. His face and
hands were sticky with the honey-dew, slowly, invisibly distilling from
the lime-tree. He bent down and felt the grass. And suddenly there came
over him the certainty of her presence. Yes, she was there--out