It was a face that never changed and yet was always changing.

She looked doubly strange in the evening light, and her smile softened
and deepened as the shadows gathered in the room.

Antony came and stood in front of her.

"Silencieux," he whispered, "I love you, Silencieux. Smiling Silence, I
love you. All day long on the moors your smile has stolen like a
moonbeam by my side--"

As he spoke, from far down the wood came the gentle sound of a woman's
voice calling "Antony," and coming nearer as it called.

With a shade of impatience, Antony bent nearer to the image and kissed
it.

"Good-bye, Silencieux," he whispered, "Good-bye, until the rising of the
moon."

Then he passed out on to the little staircase that led down into the
wood, and called back to the approaching voice: "I am coming,
Beatrice,"--'Beatrice' being the name of his wife.

As he called, a shaft of late sunlight suddenly irradiated the tall
slim form of a woman coming up the wood. She wore no hat, and the sun
made a misty glory of her pale gold hair. She seemed a fairy romantic
thing thus gliding in her yellow silk gown through the darkening pines.
And her face was the face of the image, feature for feature. There was
on it too the same light, the same smile.