r the glint of
gold in the little curls about her temples, as she stood by the lamp.
A pleasant face, too; not exactly classic, but rosy and frank; and then
she has that animation which so many pretty women lack.

Madame Menin has forgotten something else. She has forgotten to shut my
window. She has designs upon my life!

I have just shut the window. The night is calm, its stars twinkling
through a haze. The year ends mournfully.

I remember at school once waking suddenly on such a night as this, to
find the moonlight streaming into my eyes. At such a moment it is
always a little hard to collect one's scattered senses, and take in the
midnight world around, so unhomely, so absolutely still. First I cast
my eyes along the two rows of beds that stretched away down the
dormitory--two parallel lines in long perspective; my comrades huddled
under their blankets in shapeless masses, gray or white according as
they lay near or far from the windows; the smoky glimmer of the oil
lamp half-way down the room; and at the end, in the deeper shadows, the
enclosure of yellow curtains surrounding the usher's bed.

Not a sound about me; all was still. But without, my ear, excited and
almost feverishly awake, caught the sound of a strange call, very sweet,
again and again repeated--fugitive notes breathing appeal, tender
and troubled. Now they grew quite distant, and I heard no more than a
phantom of sound; now they came near, passed over my head, and faded
again into the distance. The moon's clear rays invited me to clear up
the mystery. I sprang from my bed, and ran in my nightshirt to open the
window. It was about eleven o'clock. Together the keen night-air and
the moonlight wrapped me round, thrilling me with delight. The large
courtyard lay deserted with its leafless poplars and spiked railings.
Here and there a grain of sand sparkled. I raised my eyes, and from one
constellation to another I sought the deep blue of heaven in vain; not
a shadow upon it, not one dark wing outlined. Yet all the while the
same sad and gentle cry wandered and was lost in air, the chant of an
invisible soul which seemed in want of me, and had perhaps awakened me.

The thought came upon me that it was the soul of my mother calling to
me--my mother, whose voice was soft and very musical.

"I am caring for thee," said the voice. "I am caring for thee; I can see
thee," it said, "I can see thee. I love thee! I love thee!"

"Reveal thyself!" I called b