garden, mysterious now in the darkness, and seeming to lead into
infinite space. The lines of aloe, fig, and palm stood like
shadows guarding a world of mystery. Daphne, wandering alone in
the garden at midnight, half exultant, half afraid, stepped
noiselessly along the pebbled walks with a feeling that that
world was about to open for her. Ahead, through an arch where
the thick foliage of the ilexes had been cut to leave the way
clear for the passer-by, a single golden planet shone low in the
west, and the garden path led to it.

Daphne had been unable to sleep, for sleeplessness had become a
habit during the past week. Whether she was too happy or too
unhappy she could not tell: she only knew that she was restless
and smothering for air and space. Hastily dressing, she had
stolen on tiptoe down the broad stairway by the running water and
out into the night, carrying a tiny Greek lamp with a single
flame, clear, as only the flame of olive oil can be. She had put
the lamp down in the doorway, and it was burning there now, a
beacon to guide her footsteps when she wanted to return.
Meanwhile, the air was cool on throat and forehead and on her
open palms: she had no wish to go in.

Here was a fountain whose jets of water, blown high from the
mouths of merry dolphins, fell in spray in a great stone basin
where mermaids waited for the shower to touch bare shoulders and
bended heads. The murmur of the water, mingled with the murmur
of unseen live things, and the melody of night touched the girl's
discordant thoughts to music. Of what avail, after all, was her
fierce struggle for duty? Here were soft shadows, and great
spaces, and friendly stars.