Then a face came in at the garden-gate,
And a wondrous thing befell.
Up rose the joy as well as the love,
In the song, in the scent, in the show!
The moon grew glad in the sky above,
The blossom grew rosy below.
The blossom and moon, the scent and the tune,
In ecstasy rise and fall.
But they had no thanks for the granted boon,
For the lady forgot them all.
There was no light in the room except that of the shining air. Alec sat
listening, as if Kate were making and meaning the song. But
notwithstanding the enchantment of the night, all rosy in the red glow
of Alec's heart; notwithstanding that scent of gilly-flowers and
sweet-peas stealing like love through every open door and window;
notwithstanding the radiance of her own beauty, Kate was only singing a
song. It is sad to have all the love and all the mystery to
oneself--the other being the centre of the glory, and yet far beyond
its outmost ring, sitting on a music-stool at a common piano
old-fashioned and jingling, not in fairyland at all in fact, or even
believing in its presence.
But that night the moon was in a very genial humour, and gave her light
plentiful and golden.
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