When he tried to think of the Alice he loved he saw, not the shadowy spirit occupant of the west gable, but the young girl who had stood under the pine, beautiful with the beauty of moonlight, of starshine on still water, of white, wind-swayed flowers growing in silent, shadowy places.

He did not then realize what this meant: had he realized it he would have suffered bitterly; as it was he felt only a vague discomfort--a curious sense of loss and gain commingled.
He saw her again that afternoon on her way home.

She did not pause by the garden but walked swiftly past.

Thereafter, every day for a week he watched unseen to see her pass his home.

Once a little child was with her, clinging to her hand.