How do you think of all these things ?" She crossed over to the window to cool her hot face.

She, too, heard the voices of the night; not as the poet hears them, but as one in pain.

"He never loved me!" she murmured, so softly that even the sparrows in the vine heard her not.

And bitter indeed was the pain.
But of what use to struggle, or to sigh, or vainly to regret?
As things are written, so must they be read.

She readily held him guiltless; what she regretted most deeply was the lack of power to have him and to hold him.