which the firelight played with flashes of its own color, and a delicate profile cut in pure, clean lines melting into throat and gently rounded breast; like a spirit, now here, now gone, again near and bending over him, — a ministering spirit bringing him food, — until gradually this half wake, dreaming reminiscence concentrated upon her, and again he saw her standing holding the candle high and looking up at him, — a wondering, questioning spirit, — then drooping wearily into the chair by the uncleared table, and again waiting with almost a smile on her parted lips as he said “good night.” Good night? Ah, yes. It was morning.

Again he heard the continuous rushing noise to which he had listened in the white mystery, that had soothed him to slumber the night before, rising and falling