sleepless, was awake making her influence felt with the kindly
natural sounds that mitigate the awe of absolute silence--sounds
that harmonized with the peacefulness of the little garden.
Tonight the contrast between Yokohama, with its pitiful western
vulgarity obtruding at every turn, and the quiet beauty of his
surroundings struck Craven even more sharply than usual. It seemed
impossible that only two miles away was Theatre Street blazing and
rioting with all its tinsel tawdriness, flaring lights and whining
gramophones. Here was another world--and here he had found more
continuous contentment than he had known in the last ten years.
The garden was an old one, planned by a master hand. By day it was
lovely, but by night it took on a weird beauty that was almost
unreal. The light of the moon cast strong black shadows, deep and
impenetrable, that hovered among the trees like sinister spirits
lurking in the darkness.

The trees themselves, contorted in the moonlight, assumed strange
forms--vague shapes played in and out among them--the sombre
bushes seemed alive with peeping faces. It was the Garden of
Enchantment, peopled with a thousand djinns and demons of Old
Japan. The atmosphere was mysterious, the air was saturated with
sweet heavy scents.

Craven was a passionate lover of the night. The darkness, the
silence, the mystery of it appealed to him. He was familiar with
its every phase in many climates. It enticed him for long solitary
rambles in all the countries he had visited during the ten years
of his wanderings. Nature, always fascinating, was then to him
doubly attractive, doubly alluring. To the night he went for
sympathy. To the night he went for inspiration. It was during his