Yet was she ever alert to listen, and sometimes the subdued trembling would come on and the obstruction of breath.  But when the talker, in mid-excitement of speech, snatched his violin and drew from it melodies weirdly exquisite, soothing his diseased thoughts and harmonizing them, Nurse would become once more composed; the phantom danger was again put off, and the violinist would presently fall into silence,—­sometimes into sleep.  But still, while he slept, the witch-eye watched him; though with an expression of yearning, uncouth intensity which seldom ventured forth while he was awake.

With Gnulemah, Nurse’s intercourse became yearly more and more infrequent.  As the child arose to womanhood, she grew apart from the voiceless creature who had cared for her infancy.  It was not Gnulemah’s fault, whose heart was never barren of loving impulses.  But mother, father, were words whose meaning she had never been taught; and had Nurse comprehended the unconscious thirst and hunger of the girl’s soul,—­unconscious, but not therefore harmless,—­she might have tried, by dint of affectionate observances and companionship, to represent the motherly office which she had filled in the beginning.  But this was not to be.  Some hidden agency had forced the two ever farther asunder.  Moreover, Gnulemah developed rapidly, while Nurse underwent a process of gradual congealment,—­her wits and emotions became torpid.  Besides this, she was the victim of disfigurement, physical as well as spiritual; while Gnulemah, both naturally and by training, was sensitive to beauty and ugliness.  Other surface causes no doubt there were, in addition to the hidden one, which was perhaps the most potent of all.

A considerable time had passed since Gnulemah’s departure, when Balder became aware that he was not alone in the conservatory.  His thoughts were all of Gnulemah, and he looked quickly round in expectation of seeing her.  The apparition of a widely different object startled him to his feet.

A female figure stood before him, wrapped in sad-colored garments of anomalous description, her head tied up in dark turban-like folds of cloth.  A lock of rusty black hair escaped from beneath this head-dress and hung down beside her face.  She might once have been tall and erect, but her form now sagged to the left, losing both height and dignity.  Her visage, seamed and furrowed by the scar of some terrible calamity, had lost its natural contour.  The left eye was extinguished, but the right remained,—­the only feature in its original state.  It was dark and bright, and possessed, by very virtue of its disfigured environment, a repulsive kind of beauty.  Its influence was peculiar.  In itself, it postulated an owner in the prime of life, handsome and graceful.  But, one’s attention wandering, the woman’s actual ugliness impressed itself with an intensity enhanced by the imaginary contrast.