Then utter loneliness fell upon the blind girl as she leaned against the window.  She had expected nothing, she had asked nothing, even in her heart; and she had less than nothing, since never on earth, nor in heaven hereafter, could Don John say a loving word to her.  And yet she felt that something had been taken from her and given to her sister,—­something that was more to her than life, and dearer than the thought of sight to her blindness.  She had taken what had not been given her, in innocent girlish thoughts that were only dreams, and could hurt no one.  He had always spoken gently to her, and touched her hand kindly; and many a time, sitting alone in the sun, she had set those words to the well-remembered music of his voice, and she had let the memory of his light touch on her fingers thrill her strangely to the very quick.  It had been but the reflection of a reflection in her darkness, wherein the shadow of a shadow seemed as bright as day.  It had been all she had to make her feel that she was a part of the living, loving world she could never see.  Somehow she had unconsciously fancied that with a little dreaming she could live happy in Dolores’ happiness, as by a proxy, and she had never called it love, any more than she would have dared to hope for love in return.  Yet it was that, and nothing else,—­the love that is so hopeless and starving, and yet so innocent, that it can draw the illusion of an airy nourishment from that which to another nature would be the fountain of all jealousy and hatred.

But now, without reason and without warning, even that was taken from her, and in its place something burned that she did not know, save that it was a bad thing, and made even blackness blacker.  She heard their voices still.  They were happy together, while she was alone outside, her forehead resting against the chill glass, and her hands half numb upon the stone; and so it would always be hereafter.  They would go, and take her life with them, and she should be left behind, alone for ever; and a great revolt against her fate rose quickly in her breast like a flame before the wind, and then, as if finding nothing to consume, sank down again into its own ashes, and left her more lonely than before.  The voices had ceased now, or else the lovers were speaking very low, fearing, perhaps, that some one might be listening at the window.  If Inez had heard their words at first, she would have stopped her ears or gone to a distance, for the child knew what that sort of honour meant, and had done as much before.  But the unformed sound had been good to hear, and she missed it.  Perhaps they were sitting close and, hand in hand, reading all the sweet unsaid things in one another’s eyes.  There must be silent voices in eyes that could see, she thought.  She took little thought of the time, yet it seemed long to her since they had spoken.  Perhaps they had gone to another room.  She moved to the next window and listened there, but no sound came from within.