something restful. It was an old, childish song she had often heard her
mother sing long ago:

Where the reeds dance by the river,
Where the willow's song is said,
On the face of the morning water,
Is reflected a white flower's head.

She folded her hands and sang the next verse dreamily:

Where the reeds shake by the river,
Where the moonlight's sheen is shed,
On the face of the sleeping water,
Two leaves of a white flower float dead.
Dead, Dead, Dead!

She echoed the refrain softly till it died away, and then repeated it. It
was as if, unknown to herself, it harmonized with the pictures and thoughts
that sat with her there alone in the firelight. She turned the cakes over,
while the wind hurled down a row of bricks from the gable, and made the
walls tremble.

Presently she paused and listened; there was a sound as of something
knocking at the back-doorway. But the wind had raised its level higher,
and she went on with her work. At last the sound was repeated. Then she
rose, lit the candle and the fire, and went to see. Only to satisfy
herself, she said, that nothing could be out on such a night.

She opened the door a little way, and held the light behind her to defend
it from the wind. The figure of a tall man stood there, and before she