zing on a vision of paradise, and was afraid that all
would vanish. It was almost impossible that all these things could be
really before his eyes; and if they were, it could only be with that
imminent danger of melting into air which belongs to things divine. A
breath, and all must be dissipated. He trembled with the thought.

Before him, not far off, at the side of one of the alleys in the garden,
was a wooden seat painted green. The reader will remember this seat.

Gilliatt looked up at the two windows. He thought of the slumber of some
one possibly in that room. Behind that wall she was no doubt sleeping.
He wished himself elsewhere, yet would sooner have died than go away.
He thought of a gentle breathing moving a woman's breast. It was she,
that vision, that purity in the clouds, that form haunting him by day
and night. She was there! He thought of her so far removed, and yet so
near as to be almost within reach of his delight; he thought of that
impossible ideal drooping in slumber, and like himself, too, visited by
visions; of that being so long desired, so distant, so impalpable--her
closed eyelids, her face resting on her hand; of the mystery of sleep in
its relations with that pure spirit, of what dreams might come to one
who was herself a dream. He dared not think beyond, and yet he did. He
ventured on those familiarities which the fancy may indulge in; the
notion of how much was feminine in that angelic being disturbed his
thoughts. The darkness of night emboldens timid imaginations to take
these furtive glances. He was vexed within himself, feeling on
reflection as if it were profanity to think of her so boldly; yet still
constrained, in spite of himself, he tremblingly gazed into the
invisible. He shuddered almost with a sense of pain as he imagined her
room, a petticoat on a chair, a mantle fallen on the carpet, a band
unbuckled, a handkerchief. He imagined her corset with its lace hanging
to the ground, her stockings, her boots. His soul was among the stars.

The stars are made for the human heart of a poor man like Gilliatt not
less than for that of the rich and great. There is a certain degree of
passion by which every man becomes wrapped in a celestial light. With a
rough and primitive nature, this truth is even more applicable. An
uncultivated mind is easily touched with dreams.

Delight is a fulness which overflows like any other. To see those
windows was almost too much happiness for Gilliatt.