She thought how different this window was from that other one at home, also shaded by the trees; and what a different girl it was who looked from it.  She recalled that romantic, musing, solitary girl of Pinewood, who lived alone with a silent, grave old nurse, and the quiet years that passed there like the shadows and sunlight over the lawn.  She remembered the dark, handsome face that seemed to belong to the passionate poems that girl had read, and the wild dreams she had dreamed in the still, old garden.  In the hush of the summer twilight she heard again the rich voice that seemed to that other girl of Pinewood sweeter than the music of the verses, and felt the penetrating glance, that had thrilled the heart of that girl until her red cheek was pale.

How well for that girl that the lips which made the music had never whispered love!  Because—­because—­

Hope raised herself from lightly leaning on the window-sill as the thought flashed in her mind, and she stood erect, as if straightened by a sudden, sharp, almost insupportable pain—­“because,” she went on saying in her mind, “had they done so, that other romantic, solitary girl at Pinewood”—­dear child!  Hope’s heart trembled for her—­“might have confessed that she loved!”

Hope Wayne clenched her hands, and, all alone in her dim room, flushed, and then turned pale, and a kind of cold splendor settled on her face, so that if Arthur Merlin could have seen her he would have called her Diana.

During the moment in which she thought these things—­for it was scarcely more—­the little white bits of paper floated and fell beneath her.  She watched them as they disappeared, conscious of them, but not thinking of them.  They looked like rose-leaves, they were so pure; and how silently they sank into the darkness below!

And if she had confessed she loved, thought Hope, how would it be with that girl now?  Might she not be standing in the twilight, watching her young hopes scattered like rose-leaves and disappearing in the dark?

She clasped her hands before her, and walked gently up and down the room.  The full moon was rising, and the tender, tranquil light streamed through the trees into her chamber.

But, she thought, since she did not—­since the young girl dreamed, perhaps only for a moment, perhaps so very vaguely, of what might have been—­she has given nothing, she has lost nothing.  There was a pleasant day which she remembers, far back in her childhood—­oh! so pleasant! oh! so sunny, and flowery, and serene!  A pleasant day, when something came that never comes—­that never can come—­but once.

She stopped by the window, and looked out to see if she could yet discover any signs of the scattered paper.  She strained her eyes down toward the ground.  But it was entirely dark there.  All the light was above—­all the light was peaceful and melancholy, from the moon.

She laid her face in that moonlight upon the window-sill, and covered it with her hands.  The low wind shook the leaves, and the trees rustled softly as if they whispered to her.  She heard them in her heart.  She knew what they were saying.  They sang to her of that other girl and her wishes, and struggles and prayers.