Again, in that blissful solitude the young girl lost the convention of her prim, narrow upbringing, and told me in a natural, dreamy way of the loneliness of her new life.

With an undertone of sadness she made me feel how in that spacious home each one of the household was isolated by the personal magnificence of her father and herself; that there confidence had no altar, and sympathy no shrine; and that there even her father's face was as distant as the old country life seemed now.

Once more, the wisdom of my manhood and the experience of my years laid themselves at the girl's feet.

It was seemingly their own doing; for the individual "I" had no say in the matter, but only just obeyed imperative orders.
And once again the flying seconds multiplied themselves endlessly.

For it is in the arcana of dreams that existences merge and renew themselves, change and yet keep the same--like the soul of a musician in a fugue.