Outside, in the bloom and glow of the May evening, he mounted Selim and rode out of the town.  The people whom he met he greeted slightly, but with no change of manner which they afterwards could report.  It was sunset when he passed the last houses, and turned toward the west and his own home.  He rode slowly, with his eyes upon a great sea of vivid gold.  By degrees the brightness faded, changing to an amethyst, out of which suddenly swam the evening star.  The land rose into hills, the summits of the highest far and dark against the cold violet of the sky.  From the road to Roselands branched the road to Greenwood.  It was dusk when horse and rider reached this opening.  Selim had come to know the altered grasp upon the rein just here, and now, according to wont, he fell into the slower pace.  Rand turned in his saddle and looked across the darkening fields to the low hill, crowned with oaks, from which arose the Greenwood house.  He gazed for a full minute, then spoke to his horse and they went on at speed.  A little longer and he was at the gates of home.

His wife met him upon the doorstone.  “I heard you at the gate—­”

He put his arm around her.  “What have you been doing all the long day?”

“I worked,” she answered, “and saw to the house, and read to Hagar at the quarter.  She’s going fast.  How tired your voice sounds!  Come into the light.  Supper is ready—­and Mammy Chloe has said a charm to make you sleep to-night.”

They went indoors to the lighted rooms.  “You are wearing your amethysts,” said Rand, “and the ribbon in your hair—­”

She turned upon him a face exquisite in expression.  “They are the jewels that you like—­the ribbon as I wore it long ago.  Come in—­come in to supper.”

The brief meal ended, they returned to the drawing-room.  Rand stood irresolutely.  “I have yet a line to write,” he told her.  “I will do it here at your desk.  When I have finished, Jacqueline, then there is something I must say.”

He sat down and began to write.  She moved to the window, then restlessly back to the lighted room and sat down before the hearth, but in a moment she left this, too, and moved again through the room.  She passed her harp, and as she did so, she drew her hand across the strings.  The sweet and liquid sound ran through the room.  Rand turned.  “I have not heard,” he said, in a low voice,—­“I have not heard that sound since—­since last August.  Will you sing to me now?”

She touched the harp again.  “Yes, Lewis.  What shall I sing?”

He rose, walked to the window, and stood with his face to the night.  “Sing those verses you sang that night at Fontenoy”; then, as she struck a chord, “No, not To Althea—­the other.”

She sang.  The noble contralto, pure, rich, and deep, swelled through the room.

     “The thirst that from the soul doth rise
        Doth ask a drink divine”—­

Her voice broke and her hands dropped from the strings.  She rose quickly and left the harp.  “I cannot—­I cannot sing to-night.  The air is faint—­the flowers are too heavy.  Come out—­come out to the wind and the stars!”