dows passed clumsily within a few
inches of my face, its wings swishing as a bird's; and it, too, was
without a mate.

Then, as in the following silence I continued to listen, some far off
words came back to me. They came as the scent of lavender comes when
rain is pattering on the shingles, and some one opens the old trunk
that, ever since you can remember, has stood back under the rafters of
the sloping roof; the hallowed old trunk where a veil of yellowing lace
is stored--a piece of white satin, a blue or gray faded uniform, and
maybe a wee shoe, and a lock of hair. Every one who has leaned above
that trunk--and thank God they are legion!--has also listened to a voice
coming faintly through the past. And so words out of a lesser past now
came to me, as they were meant to be written on a torn wine card: "I am
in danger!"

She had been in danger of a brute, and had offered the safety of her
keeping to me. And the vision of my savage ancestor, though retreating
sullenly, faded into nothing. Then I felt her body press against me
softly and, looking down, I saw that she had fallen asleep, with her
head--precious, trusting thing--resting against my shoulder.

For an hour I sat motionless, fearing to awake her. Finally one of my
legs went to sleep, and soon my other leg. Yet it was a welcome
discomfort because endured for her. And I suppose the numbness must
eventually have crept the length of my body, for, I, too, slept;
awaking, I did not know how much later, to find her gone.

Then I stumbled back to my lean-to, but did not go inside. This was not
the night, nor mine the mood, to shut high heaven from my eyes, my
thoughts, the lambent flame of my love? So I chose the open, and lay on
my back gazing up into the silhouetted palm fronds, catching glimpses of
a star that here or there peeped through at me, steeping my thoughts in
solitude.

For it was that hushed hour of betwixt and between, when crickets,
tree-toads and other little creatures of the darkness have wearied
themselves to rest; yet also before the daylight life has stirred from
its own deep sleep. The silent hour, this is; the one hour in the round
of time when nature seems to be absolutely poised in breathless space;
when the pendulum of night hangs dead, and dawn is still a great way
over the hill. I shared its mysticism, feeling also a rich contentment
that she, too, was lying near me somewhere in this same solitude;
dreaming, with her cheek upon her a