ht full of sweetest fragrance.

Even as she gazes, spellbound, the clouds roll backward, and stars grow
and multiply exceedingly, until all

"the floor of heaven
Is thick inlaid with patines of bright gold."

Madam O'Connor is talking to Miss Browne of certain family matters
interesting to both. Miss Fitzgerald has gone upstairs, either to put on
another coating of powder, or else to scold her long-suffering maid. Her
mother has fallen into a gentle, somewhat noisy snooze.

A sudden similar thought striking both Monica and Mrs. Herrick at the
same moment, they rise, and make a step towards the window where Olga is
standing all alone.

Hermia, laying her hand on Monica's arm, entreats her by a gesture to
change her purpose; whereon Monica falls back again, and Hermia, going
on, parts the curtains, and, stepping in to where Olga is, joins her
uninvited.

"Dreaming?" she says, lightly.

"Who would not dream on such a night as this? the more beautiful because
of the miserable day to which it is a glorious termination. See, Hermia,
how those planets gleam and glitter, as though in mockery of us poor
foolish mortals down below."

"I don't feel a bit more foolish than I did this morning," says Hermia.
"Do you, dear? You were giving yourself a great deal of credit for your
common sense then."

"'Common sense,'--worldly wisdom,--how I hate the sound of all that
jargon!" says Olga, petulantly. "Let us forget we _must_ be wise, if
only for one night. The beauty of that silent world of flowers beyond
has somehow entered into me. Let me enjoy it. 'How sweet the moonlight
sleeps upon that bank' down there! Watch it. Can you see how the roses
quiver beneath its touch, as though stirred by some happy dream?"

"It is indeed a perfect night!" says Hermia, looking at her in some
surprise. There is a suspicion of excitement in Olga's manner--arising,
as it were, from the desire to hide one emotion by the betrayal of
another--that strikes her listener as strange.

"How softly the air beats upon one's face!" says Mrs. Bohun, leaning a
little forward. "The night is, as you say, perfect. Yet I don't know
what is the matter with me: the more I feel the loveliness of all
around, the sadder my heart seems to grow."

"What!" says Hermia, lifting her brows, "am I to learn now that you--the
gayest of all mortals--have at last succumbed to the insufferable
dreariness of this merry world?"

"You run too fast. I