Before one of the windows stood a large table littered with papers, a tumbler of water holding some brushes, and a drawing-board. By the fireplace was a comfortable chair, and on the floor beside it, as if dropped by a sudden careless movement of the reader, a book face downwards; and with the curious involuntary attention to detail to which we are liable in moments of strain, she noticed, almost with annoyance, that some of the pages were turned back and creased by the fall. The room told of nothing beyond an everyday homelike peace; there was nothing to help her elucidate the mystery. And all the while the man at her feet was pouring out a stream of rapid, fervent words. "And still you did not come! Ah, love! the long, long shadows--purple shadows--mysterious, unfathomable. No sun, no warmth, excepting when I saw you in my dreams--distant, illusive. No brightness, only darkness, until you came. But I knew you would come. Dearest, love makes no mistake, does it? Such love as mine that calling--calling--must draw you to me at the last. My beautiful Phil! my dreams of you never equalled the dear nearness of you. The night is past--the shadows are swept away, for the dawn has come--the dawn that was so long in coming, for it could only break to the music of your footfall. Phil, why do you look at me like that?" he queried suddenly. "Is it possible that I have frightened you? God knows I did not mean to. Or was it yesterday, sweetheart, did I hurt you? Truly, dear one, I did not mean to. I said that you were cold--I did not blame you--I did not think of blaming you; but my love for you is so great, so overwhelming, that it is hard to be patient. I hunger so for the touch of your lips. Forgive me, sweet, forgive me. See! now I will be calm." He rose to his feet and stood before her at a little distance. "Listen," he said, "I have something to tell you. Do you remember that little song you used to sing to me, that I loved? Well, always in my dreams when I saw you, you were coming to me like that. "'Through soft grey clouds the kind May sun was breaking, Setting ablaze the gold flower of the broom.' Always with the violets at your breast in a flood of golden radiance. Coming!--but you never came. Always sunlight where you are, my Phil, even when the shadows were darkest. And now--you have come!"