and far, far removed from all
puzzling decisions.

"I say, Lohmann," and Billy started up, "_Warmbier_ would be the only
thing I could take now; go and make me some."

Toilsomely the evening drew to its close. Lohmann had prepared
_Warmbier_, but it tasted so bad that Billy could not drink it.
Countess Betty and Madame Bonnechose came and sat beside Billy's bed,
looked sympathetically at her, spoke of Billy's cough, of remedies,
spoke cautiously about indifferent affairs, anxious not to touch upon
anything dangerous; Billy was glad when they were all gone and the
night began. She wanted to try sleeping, but in the stillness and
darkness life again became very threatening, and dreary too, like
numbers that have to be added up. When she did have a little nap, this
adding and guessing continued, and in addition to it all she was
forever having something to decide, and she did not know what or how.
It was perhaps one o'clock when she awoke; no, she did not care to
sleep, there was no pleasure in that. Through the hangings at the
window a little pale light came in. She jumped out of bed to look out
of the window: the moon was shining very brightly. Quiet and wakeful
stood the fruit trees in the patches of turf, and the hollyhocks in the
flowerbeds, and the moonlight laid a festive touch on the silent
garden. Billy wanted to be out there. She dressed hurriedly and went to
Marion's room to wake her:

"Marion, and you can sleep? I have not closed an eye, come, get up."

"I just fell asleep a little," said Marion in excuse, "what has
happened? Where must we go?"

"We must go to the currant-bushes down in the garden," said Billy.

Marion obediently got up and dressed. By way of the narrow back stairs
the two girls reached the garden. Billy drew a deep breath; that was
it, the damp, sweet breath of the flowers, and this improbable light
which made the sky, the garden, and the meadow with its white mists all
seem so endlessly vast,--this restored to her the intoxication without
which she could not live now. Here she could once more think "Boris!
Boris!" and feel that queer flaming heat in her blood which gave her
courage to undertake anything. In the orchard the strawberry-beds, the
gooseberry and currant bushes, were gray and glittering with dew, and
from the kitchen garden the pot-herbs sent over their powerful odors;
on the gravel paths dreaming toads were squatting. The girls went to a
currant bush and silently began to