The sight of them, faintly trembling between the bare boughs of the trees, is the first thing that calls me back to the consciousness of outward things.

Again I rise, and begin to walk, stumbling through the long wet knots of the unseen grass, toward the house.

But when I reach it--when I see the red gleams shining through the chinks of the window-shutters--my heart fails me.

Not yet can I face the people, the lights--Barbara! I turn into the garden, and pace up and down the broad, lonely walks: I pass and repass the cold river-gods of the unplaying fountain.

I stand in the black night of the old cedar's shade.