of earshot of her formidable aunt.
Nothing was left but to apply my knowledge. I was then at the bottom of
the garden, whither I had gone (Heaven save the mark!) for warmth, that
I might walk to and fro unheard, and keep myself from perishing. The
night had fallen still, the wind ceased; the noise of the rain had much
lightened, if it had not stopped, and was succeeded by the dripping of
the garden trees. In the midst of this lull, and as I was already
drawing near to the cottage, I was startled by the sound of a
window-sash screaming in its channels; and a step or two beyond I became
aware of a gush of light upon the darkness. It fell from Flora's window,
which she had flung open on the night, and where she now sat, roseate
and pensive, in the shine of two candles falling from behind, her
tresses deeply embowering and shading her; the suspended comb still in
one hand, the other idly clinging to the iron stanchions with which the
window was barred.

Keeping to the turf, and favoured by the darkness of the night and the
patter of the rain which was now returning, though without wind, I
approached until I could almost have touched her. It seemed a grossness
of which I was incapable to break up her reverie by speech. I stood and
drank her in with my eyes; how the light made a glory in her hair, and
(what I have always thought the most ravishing thing in nature) how the
planes ran into each other, and were distinguished, and how the hues
blended and varied, and were shaded off, between the cheek and neck. At
first I was abashed: she wore her beauty like an immediate halo of
refinement: she discouraged me like an angel. But as I continued to
gaze, hope and life returned to me; I forgot my timidity, I forgot the
sickening pack of wet clothes with which I stood burdened, I tingled
with new blood.

Still unconscious of my presence, still gazing before her upon the
illuminated image of the window, the straight shadows of the bars, the
glinting of pebbles on the path, and the impenetrable night on the
garden and the hills beyond it, she heaved a deep breath that struck
upon my heart like an appeal.

"Why does Miss Gilchrist sigh?" I whispered. "Does she recall absent
friends?"

She turned her head swiftly in my direction; it was the only sign of
surprise she deigned to make. At the same time I stepped into the light
and bowed profoundly.

"You!" she said. "Here?"

"Yes, I am here," I replied. "I have come very far, it may