the outline of the giant trees.  He went on as if in some delicious dream, which yet had some heart-break in it, and at last he came to the tree where he and Halcyone had sat those seven years ago, when she had told him of what consisted the true point of honor in a man.  He remembered it all vividly, her very words and the cloud of her soft hair which had blown a little over his face.  He sat down upon the fallen log that had been made into a rude bench; and there he gazed in front of him, unconscious now of any coherent thought.

Suddenly he was startled by a laugh so near him and so soft that he believed himself to be dreaming, but he looked round and quickly rose to his feet, and there at the other side of the tree he saw standing the ethereal figure of a girl, while her filmy gray garments seemed to melt into the night.

“Halcyone!” he gasped.  “And from where?”

“Ah!” she said as she came towards him.  “You have invaded my kingdom.  Mortal, what right have you to the things of the night?  They belong to me—­who know them and love them.”

“Then have compassion upon me, sweet dryad!” he pleaded, “who am but a pilgrim who cannot see his way.  Let me shelter under your protection and be guided aright.”

She laughed again—­a ripple of silver that he had not guessed her voice possessed.  Her whole bearing was changed from the reserved, demure and rather timid creature whom he knew.  She was a sprite now, or a nymph, or even a goddess, for her brow was imperious and her mien one of assured command.

“This is my kingdom,” she said, “and if you obey me, I will show you things of which you have never dreamed—­” and then she came towards the tree and sat upon the high forked branch of the broken bough while she pointed with shadowy finger to the part which was a bench.  “Sit there, Man of Day,” she ordered, “for you cannot see beyond your hand.  You cannot know how the living things are creeping about, unafraid now of your cruel power.  You cannot discern the difference in the colors of the fresh young bracken and the undergrowth; you cannot perceive the birds asleep in the tree.”

“No, indeed, Lady of Night,” he said, “I admit I am but a mole, but you will let me perceive them with your eyes, will you not?”

She slipped from her perch suddenly, before he could put out a protesting hand to stop her, and glided out of his view into the dark of the copse, and from there he heard the intoxicating silver laughter which maddened his every sense.

“Halcyone!  Witch!” he called.  “Come back to me—­I am afraid, all alone!”

So she came, appearing like a materializing wraith from the shadow, and with an undulating movement of incredible grace she was again seated upon her perch, the fallen forked branch of the tree.

John Derringham was experiencing the strongest emotion he had ever felt in his life.

A maddening desire to seize the elusive joy—­to come nearer—­to assure himself that she was real and not a spirit of night sent to torture and elude him—­overcame all other thought.  The startling change from her deportment of the day—­the very way she glided about was as the movement of some other being.