The shower had fallen, and the moon was shining bright, while every budding leaf and knot of mould steamed up cool perfume, borrowed from the treasures of the thundercloud.

All around was working the infinite mystery of birth and growth, of giving and taking, of beauty and use.

All things were harmonious--all things reciprocal without.

Argemone felt herself needless, lonely, and out of tune with herself and nature.
She sat in the window, and listlessly read over to herself a fragment of her own poetry:-- SAPPHO She lay among the myrtles on the cliff; Above her glared the moon; beneath, the sea.
Upon the white horizon Athos' peak Weltered in burning haze; all airs were dead; The sicale slept among the tamarisk's hair; The birds sat dumb and drooping.

Far below The lazy sea-weed glistened in the sun: The lazy sea-fowl dried their steaming wings; The lazy swell crept whispering up the ledge, And sank again.