I see again, not far from me, a bed, a child, a girl-child, who is asleep in our house; her eyes are only two lines.
Into our house, after a very long time, we have led my old aunt.

She approves affectionately, but all the same she said, very quietly, as she left the perfection of our room, "It was better in my time." I am thrilled by one of our windows, whose wings are opened wide upon the darkness; the appeal which the chasm of that window makes across the distances enters into me.

One night, as it seems to me, it was open to its heart.
_I_--my heart--a gaping heart, enthroned in a radiance of blood.

It is mine, it is _ours_.

The heart--that wound which we have.