I was passing along the highway, a pipe between my teeth.  It was the beginning of twilight, that trysting hour of all our reveries, when the old days come back with a perfume as sweet and vague as that which hovers over a jar of spiced rose leaves.  I was thinking of the year which was gone; how I first came to the inn; of the hour when I first held her in my arms and kissed her, and vowed my love to her; of the parting, when she of her own will had thrown her arms about my neck and confessed.  The shadows were thickening on the ground, and the voices of the forests were hushed.  I glanced at the western sky.  It was like a frame of tarnished gold, waiting for night with her diadem of stars to step within.  The purple hills were wrapping themselves in robes of pearly mists; the flowing river was tinted with dun and vermilion; and one by one the brilliant planets burst through the darkening blues of the heavens.  The inn loomed up against the sky, gray and lonely.  Behind me, far away down the river, I could catch occasional glimpses of the lamps of the village.  Presently there came a faint yellow glow in the east, and I knew that Diana was approaching.

  She tosses loose her locks upon the night,
  And, through the dim wood Dian threads her way.

A wild sweetness filled the air.  I was quite half a mile from the inn, yet I could smell the odor of her roses, Gretchen’s roses.  It was a long and weary year which had intervened.  And now she was there, only a short way from my arms.  But she did not know that I was coming.  A million diamonds sprang into the air whenever I struck the lush grasses with my cane.  Everywhere I breathed the perfume of her roses.  They seemed to hide along the hedges, to lurk among the bushes, red roses and white.  On the hill, across the valley, I saw the little cemetery with its white stones.  I arrested my steps and took off my hat.  The dust of Hillars lay there.  I stood motionless for some time.  I had loved the man as it is possible for one man to love another.  I had not thought of him much of late; but in this life we cannot always stand by the grave of those who have gone before.  He had loved Gretchen with a love perhaps less selfish than mine, for he had sacrificed his life uselessly for her that she might—­be mine!  Mine!  I thought.  And who was I that she should love me instead of him?  All the years I had known him I had known but little of him.  God only knows the hearts of these men who rove or drift, who, anchorless and rudderless, beat upon the ragged reels of life till the breath leaves them and they pass through the mystic channel into the serene harbor of eternity.  A sudden wave of dissatisfaction swept over me.  What had I done in the world to merit attention?  What had I done that I, and not he, should know the love of woman?  Why should I live to-day and not he?  From out the silence there came no answer; and I continued on.  It was life.  It was immutable, and there was no key.