"That only can be ours in whose existence our will is a factor." "Ha! a metaphysician too!" I remarked inside, and was silent.
"May I take what is left of the loaf ?" I asked presently.
"You will want no more to-day," she replied.
"To-morrow I may!" I rejoined.
She rose and went to the door, saying as she went, "It has nothing to do with to-morrow--but you may take it if you will." She opened the door, and stood holding it.

I rose, taking up the bread--but lingered, much desiring to see her face.
"Must I go, then ?" I asked.
"No one sleeps in my house two nights together!" she answered.
"I thank you, then, for your hospitality, and bid you farewell!" I said, and turned to go.
"The time will come when you must house with me many days and many nights," she murmured sadly through her muffling.
"Willingly," I replied.
"Nay, NOT willingly!" she answered.
I said to myself that she was right--I would not willingly be her guest a second time! but immediately my heart rebuked me, and I had scarce crossed the threshold when I turned again.
She stood in the middle of the room; her white garments lay like foamy waves at her feet, and among them the swathings of her face: it was lovely as a night of stars.

Her great gray eyes looked up to heaven; tears were flowing down her pale cheeks.

She reminded me not a little of the sexton's wife, although the one looked as if she had not wept for thousands of years, and the other as if she wept constantly behind the wrappings of her beautiful head.

Yet something in the very eyes that wept seemed to say, "Weeping may endure for a night, but joy cometh in the morning." I had bowed my head for a moment, about to kneel and beg her forgiveness, when, looking up in the act, I found myself outside a doorless house.