pierce through and through her like lances of steel. The night
seemed very long. She was tired.

She was erect there on her Sevres throne, with the light thrilling
and throbbing upon her in every point. But she thought of the
sweet, dark, fresh nights in the old home where the blackbird had
slept, and she longed for them.

The dancers came and went, the music thrummed and screamed, the
laughter was both near and far; the rose tree was amidst it all.
Yet she felt alone--all alone! as travelers may feel in a desert.
Hour succeeded hour; the night wore on apace; the dancers ceased
to come; the music ceased, too; the light still burned down upon
her, and the scorching fever of it consumed her like fire.

Then there came silence--entire silence. Servants came round and
put out all the lights--hundreds and hundreds of lights--quickly,
one by one. Other servants went to the windows and threw them wide
open to let out the fumes of wine. Without, the night was changing
into the gray that tells of earliest dawn. But it was a bitter
frost; the grass was white with it; the air was ice. In the great
darkness that had now fallen on all the scene this deadly cold
came around the rose tree and wrapped her in it as in a shroud.

She shivered from head to foot.

The cruel glacial coldness crept into the hot banqueting chamber,
and moved round it in white, misty circles, like steam, like
ghosts of the gay guests that had gone. All was dark and chill--
dark and chill as any grave!