istences in their own, until identity is almost gone in the
endless transmigration of their souls from the shadow in one dream-tale
to the wraith of themselves that dreams the next. So, in that hour,
Unorna drifted through the changing scenes that a word had power to call
up, scarce able, and wholly unwilling, to distinguish between her real
and her imaginary self. What matter how? What matter where? The very
questions which at first she had asked herself came now but faintly as
out of an immeasurable distance, and always more faintly still. They
died away in her ears, as when, after long waiting, and false starts,
and turnings back and anxious words exchanged, the great race is at last
begun, the swift long limbs are gathered and stretched and strained
and gathered again, the thunder of flying hoofs is in the air, and the
rider, with low hands, and head inclined and eyes bent forward, hears
the last anxious word of parting counsel tremble and die in the rush of
the wind behind.

She had really loved him throughout all those years; she had really
sought him and mourned for him and longed for a sight of his face;
they had really parted and had really found each other but a short hour
since; there was no Beatrice but Unorna and no Unorna but Beatrice, for
they were one and indivisible and interchangeable as the glance of
a man's two eyes that look on one fair sight; each sees alone, the
same--but seeing together, the sight grows doubly fair.

"And all the sadness, where is it now?" she asked. "And all the
emptiness of that long time? It never was, my love--it was yesterday
we met. We parted yesterday, to meet to-day. Say it was yesterday--the
little word can undo seven years."

"It seems like yesterday," he answered.

"Indeed, I can almost think so, now, for it was all night between.
But not quite dark, as night is sometimes. It was a night full of
stars--each star was a thought of you, that burned softly and showed me
where heaven was. And darkest night, they say, means coming morning--so
when the stars went out I knew the sun must rise."

The words fell from her lips naturally. To her it seemed true that she
had indeed waited long and hoped and thought of him. And it was not all
false. Ever since her childhood she had been told to wait, for her love
would come and would come only once. And so it was true, and the dream
grew sweeter and the illusion of the enchantment more enchanting still.
For it was an enchantment