Days went by, until the added sum of them at last made three long years: and still Beauty’s life passed on dreamfully, in the palace of the Beast. But for the sweet-voiced thrushes and nightingales, which made melody in the rose-garden without, all day long and after sun-down,--the silence of that solitude might have made the girl’s heart sad. Within the dusky pine-branches, wild doves had their nests, and to her ear their note had human tones. Often as she listened would their never-ending love-plaint seem to bring anigh old home-scenes in that other world, she used, she thought, to know full well. After the three twelvemonths--which in that spellbound place seemed but one summer long--there came a day when the lonely maid wandered further in the garden than had been her wont. The gold hem of her gown slid shining over the daisies and pink petals drifted down from thorny brakes upon the grass, as she passed along green paths, to where the flowers and the broad sunshine ceased. Under the beeches, in the sun-flecked shade, her feet pressed last year’s crisp brown leaves; hard by, under a knot of firs, a little thread of clear water, fell sparkling into a marble basin. And Beauty leaned over the sculptured edge, while many thoughts both sweet and bitter, went to and fro across her brain. Down in the clear pool wavered gleams of some other blue--shadows of other, not familiar, branching trees; till, as she gazed into that little shallow, she deemed some picture lay there. Through the leaves she dimly beheld, as in a very far distance, an old grey tower, on a sandy ridge, beside the rippling sea. Coldly shone the distant sunlight on the tower. The heavy iron-studded door stood wide open; and there in the weed-grown court browsed the white goats, or climbed the ruined wall, to reach down wandering tendrils of wild vine rooted in the stones. Very solitary did that old grey tower seem, as, dimmed with gathering tears, her eyes sought, but all in vain, one whom she might nowhere find; then, as she gazed steadfastly, a dead leaf fell and blurred the image, erewhile distinct and living. Beauty was passing heavy when she rose and left the beechen grove. And when, as she moved again along the fresh grassy pleasance, grey clouds had dulled the sunshine, and a new fear oppressed her joyous spirit. That evening-tide, at supper, the Beast might well discover how the lady strove, but could not, to hide some sharp grief. Yet so daffish was he withal, that no manner of cheer could he make her, nor yet require her to say what had gone amiss; but only might he sit before her in troubled thought and look askance with down-hung head. Then at last spake Beauty, in naught misdoubting the Beast (for he had ever shown himself kind and courteous to her, like a knight of old time)--