Once or twice she stopped her work, and crouching down upon the bed allowed her tears to have their way.

When she had finished her preparations she blew out her candle, and leaning upon the sill of the open window, gave her face to the cool night air.
There was a break in the eastern sky; already here and there a blackbird sang in the garden boughs, and the freshness, the quietude, swept her thoughts back to the Chalet de Lognan.

With a great yearning she recalled that evening and the story of the great friendship so quietly related to her in the darkness, beneath the stars.

The world and the people of her dreams existed; only there was no door of entrance into that world for her.

Below her the stream sang, even as the glacier stream had sung, though without its deep note of thunder.