"When you've made friends with him so that he won't bark when you get
out of the window, then come to the arbour behind our orchard. I'll
wait for you every night at twelve. But don't mind that. Don't come
till you're sure of the dog."

For three long nights she sat on the wooden bench of the arbour until
the coming of dawn and stared into the bluish dusk that hid the
village as in a cloak. From time to time the dogs bayed. She could
distinguish the bay of the pastor's collie. She knew his hoarse voice.
Perhaps he was barring her beloved's way....

At last, during the fourth night, when his coming was scarcely to be
hoped for, uncertain steps dragged up the hill.

She did not run to meet him. She crouched in the darkest corner of the
arbour and tasted, intensely blissful, the moments during which he
felt his way through the foliage.

Then she clung to his neck, to his lips, demanding and according
all--rapt to the very peaks of life....

They were together nightly. Few words passed between them. She
scarcely knew how he looked. For not even a beam of the moon could
penetrate the broad-leaved foliage, and at the peep of dawn they
separated. She might have lain in the arms of a stranger and not known
the difference.

And not only during their nightly meetings, but even by day they slipt
through life-like shadows. One day the pastor came to the inn for a