She looked at it in a kind of awe, as she had ever done the letters of this woman who was without the pale.

They had a sense of mystery, an air of forbidden imagination.
She put the letter back, went to the door again, and looked out.

It was now time to go.

Drawing a hood over her head, she stepped out into the night.

There was a little frost, though spring was well forward, and the smell of the rich earth and the budding trees was sweet to the sense.
The moon had just set, but the stars were shining, and here and there patches of snow on the hillside and in the fields added to the light.
Yet it was not bright enough to see far, and as Rosalie moved down the street she did not notice a figure at a little distance behind, walking on the new-springing grass by the roadside.