tried to think what her life would be after he was gone, and she
was frightened; she could not imagine her old life resumed. When
Clayton came, it was as though she had risen from sleep in a
dream, and had lived in it thereafter without questioning its reality.
Into his hands she had delivered her life and herself with the
undoubting faith of a child. She had never thought of their
relations at all. Now the awakening had come. The dream was
shattered. For the first time her eye was turned inward, where a
flood of light brought into terrible distinctness the tumult that
began to rage so suddenly within.

One hope only flashed into her brain-perhaps Raines was
mistaken. But even then, if he were, Clayton must go some time;
he had told her that. On this fact every thought became centred. It
was no longer how he came, the richness of the new life he had
shown her, the barrenness of the old, Raines's accusation, the
shame of it-the shame of being pointed out and laughed at after
Clayton's departure; it was no longer helpless wonder at the fierce
emotions racking her for the first time: her whole being was
absorbed in the realization which slowly forced itself into her heart
and brain-some day he must go away; some day she must lose him.
She lifted her hands to her head in a dazed, ineffectual way. The
moonlight grew faint before her eyes; mountain, sky, and mist
were in-distinguishably blurred; and the girl sank down upon her
trembling knees, down till she lay crouched on the floor with her
tearless face in her arms.

The moon rose high above her and sank down the west. The
shadows shortened and crept back to the woods, night noises grew
fainter, and the mists floated up from the valley and Clung around