and from the window I could see the naked branches of the endmost. A
gas-lamp suddenly blazed behind it in Acre Lane, and I descried a bird in
the tree. And as the tree waved its plume in the night-wind, and the bird
swayed on the moving twig, and the gas-lamp burned meekly and patiently
beyond, I seemed to catch in these simple things a glimpse of the secret
meaning of human existence, such as one gets sometimes, startlingly, in a
mood of idle receptiveness. And it was so sad and so beautiful, so full
of an ecstatic melancholy, that I dropped the curtain. And my thought
ranged lovingly over our household--prim, regular, and perfect: my old
aunt embroidering in the breakfast-room, and Rebecca and Lucy ironing in
the impeachable kitchen, and not one of them with the least suspicion
that Adam had not really waked up one morning minus a rib. I wandered in
fancy all over the house--the attics, my aunt's bedroom so miraculously
neat, and mine so unkempt, and the dark places in the corridors where
clocks ticked.

I had the sense of the curious compact organism of which my aunt was the
head, and into which my soul had strayed by some caprice of fate. What I
felt was that the organism was suspended in a sort of enchantment,
lifelessly alive, unconsciously expectant of the magic touch which would
break the spell, and I wondered how long I must wait before I began to
live. I know now that I was happy in those serene preliminary years, but
nevertheless I had the illusion of spiritual woe. I sighed grievously as
I went back to the piano, and opened the volume of Mikuli's Chopin.

Just as I was beginning to play, Rebecca came into the room. She was a
maid of forty years, and stout; absolutely certain of a few things, and
quite satisfied in her ignorance of all else; an important person in our
house, and therefore an important person in the created universe, of
which our house was for her the centre. She wore the white cap with