Scarce knowing what he did, he arose and hurrying down the stair was in the street.  The streets were strange to him but there was a pleasant sense of adventure in wandering through them—­he knew not whither—­and the sweet airs of the flowers were everywhere.

Suddenly he stopped.  While all the town slept there was one beside himself, who kept vigil.  Clad all in white, she half reclined upon a violet bank in an old garden where the moon fell on the upturned faces of a thousand roses and on her own, “upturned,—­alas, in sorrow!”

Faint with the beauty and the poetry of the scene he leaned upon the gate of the

              “enchanted garden
    Where no wind dared to stir unless on tiptoe.”

He dared not speak or give any sign of his presence, but he gazed and gazed until to his entranced eyes it seemed that

“The pearly lustre of the moon went out: 
The mossy banks and the meandering paths—­
The happy flowers and the repining trees—­
Were seen no more.”

All was lost to his vision—­

    “Save only the divine light in those eyes—­
    Save but the soul in those uplifted eyes.”

* * * * *

He continued to gaze until the moon disappeared behind a bank of cloud and he watched the white-robed figure glide away like “a ghost amid the entombing trees.”  Yet still (it seemed to him) the eyes remained.  They lighted his lonely footsteps home that night and he told himself that they would light him henceforth, through the years.

Nearly a year had passed since that October night when the Star of Love ushering in a new morning had prophesied to him of new hope—­nearly a year through which he had waited patiently, but not in vain.  The time had evidently come for the prophecy to be fulfilled and Fate had led him to this town and the spot in this town where she that was to be (he was convinced) the hope, the guide, the savior, of his “lonesome latter years” awaited him.

Who was she?—­

So spirit-like, so ethereal, she seemed, as robed in white and veiled in silvery moon-beams she sat among the slumbering roses, and as she was gathered into the shadows of the entombing trees, that she might almost have been the “Lady Ligeia.”  Yet he knew that she was not.  The “Lady Ligeia” had been but the creation of his own brain.  Very fair she had been to his dreaming vision, very sweet her companionship had been to his imagination—­sufficient for all the needs of his being in his youthful days when sorrow was but a beautiful sentiment, when “terror was not fright, but a tremulous delight” but how was such an one as she to bind up the broken heart of a man?  It was the human element in the eyes of her that sat among the roses that enchained him.  Ethereal—­spirit-like—­as she was, the eyes upturned in sorrow were the eyes of no spirit, but of a woman; from them looked a human soul with the capacity and the experience to offer sympathy meet for human needs—­the needs even, of a broken-hearted man.