He went in quietly, closed the door, and was in his own room when
Allison's latch-key rattled in the lock. The Colonel took pains not to
be heard moving about, but it was unnecessary, for Allison's heart was
beating in time with its own music, and surging with the nameless
rapture that comes but once.
Down in the moon-lit, dream-haunted garden, Allison waited for Isabel,
as the First Man might have waited for the First Woman, in another
garden, countless ages ago. Stars were mirrored in the lily-pool; the
waning moon swung low. The roses had gone, except a few of the late-
blooming sort, but the memory of their fragrance lingered still in the
velvet dusk.
No music came from the quiet house, for Rose had not touched the piano
since That Night. It stood out in his remembrance in capitals, as it did
in hers, for widely different reasons. Only Isabel, cherishing no
foolish sentiment as to dates and places, could have forgotten That
Night.
With a lover's fond fancy, Allison had written a note to Isabel, asking
her to meet him in the garden by the lily-pool, at nine, and to wear the
silver-spangled gown.
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