She caught up a shawl and flung it carelessly over her head, quite

unconscious that the fleecy, rose-coloured wool made an exquisite frame

for the girlish loveliness of her face, and opening the door, went

slowly down the broken, lichen-covered steps, the two dogs following at

her heels.

She drew in the keen but balmy air with a long breath, and looked up at

the moon, now a yellow crescent in the starry sky; and something in the

beauty of the night, something subtly novel thrilled her with a strange

sense of throbbing, pulsing joy and happiness, underneath which lurked

as subtle a fear and dread, the fear and dread of those who stand upon

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the threshold of the unknown; who, in passing that threshold, enter a

world of strange things which they never more may leave.

Love: what was it? Did she feel it? Oh, if she could only tell! What

should she say to him when she met him; and when should she meet him?

Perhaps he had come to regret his avowal to her, had been wearied and

disappointed by her coldness, and would not come again! At the thought

her heart contracted as if at the touch of an icy hand. But the next

moment it leapt with a suffocating sense of mystery, of half-fearful

joy, for she saw him coming across the lawn to her, and heard her name,

spoken as it had never yet been spoken excepting by him; and she stood,

still as a statue, as he held out his hand and, looking into her eyes,

murmured her name again.

"Ida!"




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