She set her eyes upon his once more, then turned swiftly and almost ran along the hedge to the gate; but there she stopped and looked back.

He was standing where she had left him, his face again uplifted to the sky.
She waved him an uncertain farewell, and ran into the garden, both palms against her burning cheeks.
Night is the great necromancer, and strange are the fabrics he weaves; he lays queer spells; breathes so eerie an intoxication through the dusk; he can cast such glamours about a voice! He is the very king of fairyland.
Miss Betty began to walk rapidly up and down the garden paths, her head bent and her bands still pressed to her cheeks; now and then an unconscious exclamation burst from her, incoherent, more like a gasp than a word.

A long time she paced the vigil with her stirring heart, her skirts sweeping the dew from the leaning flowers.

Her lips moved often, but only the confused, vehement "Oh, oh!" came from them, until at last she paused in the middle of the garden, away from the trees, where all was open to the sparkling firmament, and extended her arms over her head.
"O, strange teacher," she said aloud, "I take your beautiful stars! I shall know how to learn from them!" She gazed steadily upward, enrapt, her eyes resplendent with their own starlight.
"Oh, stars, stars, stars!" she whispered.
In the teeth of all wizardry, Night's spells do pass at sunrise; marvellous poems sink to doggerel, mighty dreams to blown ashes and solids regain weight.

Miss Betty, waking at daybreak, saw the motes dancing in the sun at her window, and watched them with a placid, unremembering eye.