Then this was gone, and there were no more sights or sounds that night.
As they sate at breakfast, the small birds were singing merrily from among the sun-tipped foliage.
"I love this music," said Alice, unusually pale and sad; "it comes with the pleasant light of morning.

I remember, Una, when you used to sing, like those gay birds, in the fresh beams of the morning; that was in the old time, when Una kept no secret from poor Alice." "And Una knows what her sage Alice means; but there are other birds, silent all day long, and, they say, the sweetest too, that love to sing by _night_ alone." So things went on--the elder girl pained and melancholy--the younger silent, changed, and unaccountable.
A little while after this, very late one night, on awaking, Alice heard a conversation being carried on in her sister's room.

There seemed to be no disguise about it.

She could not distinguish the words, indeed, the walls being some six feet thick, and two great oak doors intercepting.
But Una's clear voice, and the deep bell-like tones of the unknown, made up the dialogue.
Alice sprung from her bed, threw her clothes about her, and tried to enter her sister's room; but the inner door was bolted.

The voices ceased to speak as she knocked, and Una opened it, and stood before her in her nightdress, candle in hand.
"Una--Una, darling, as you hope for peace, tell me who is here ?" cried frightened Alice, with her trembling arms about her neck.
Una drew back, with her large innocent blue eyes fixed full upon her.
"Come in, Alice," she said, coldly.
And in came Alice, with a fearful glance around.