"Too short for him to utter forth his love-chant, And disburthen his full soul of all its music." The notes rise and fall, and tremble on the air. No other sound comes from the breast of nature to mar the richness of its tone. No earthly thing seems living but itself. For it the night appears created, and draws its "sable curtain stained with gold" over the sleeping world. This nightingale, of all the feathered tribes, is wakeful, and chants its hymn of praise at midnight, whilst all its brethren rest in peaceful slumber. The intense and solemn stillness of all around renders more enchanting the trills and tender trembles that shake its tiny throat. There is "No whispering but of leaves, on which the breath Of heaven plays music to the birds that slumber." Yet this one sweet bird refuses rest, and, as though one of those "small foules" that "slepen alle night with open eye," sings on courageously amidst the gloom. Dorian, strolling absently through the walks, and into the shrubberies beyond, listens, and feels some sense of comfort (that has yet with it a touch of pain) creep through him as the nightingale's sweet song smites upon his ear. Yet this is not the only sound that disturbs the quiet of the night. Sadly, mournfully, a half-suppressed sob falls upon the air. Branscombe starts, and looks round suddenly, but can see nothing. No footsteps make themselves heard. The shrubs are sufficiently thick to conceal the presence of any one, yet it seems to him as if the thought of that sob was born of fancy, and that the earthly owner of it is unborn. Then some ray from the brilliant moon opens his eyes, and he sees a woman's figure standing in a somewhat disconsolate attitude, with her back against a tall elm, and her eyes fixed wistfully upon the distant windows, through which the lights are streaming, and the passing to and fro of the dancing crowd may be distinctly seen. Dorian, recognizing her, goes quickly up to her and lays his hand upon her shoulder. It is Ruth Annersley! She stifles a low cry, and, turning to him, grows even a shade paler than she was a moment since. "Ruth," says Dorian, "what on earth brings you here at this hour?" For a moment she makes him no answer. She raises her hand to brush away the tears that still lie heavily upon her cheeks, and then moves a little away from him, so as to elude his touch. "I came to see them dancing," she says, at length, with difficulty; "I thought it would be a pretty sight; and--it is--I have been so--so pleased." The words seem to choke her. With a movement that is terribly pathetic she lays her hand upon her heart; and then Dorian, following the direction her eyes have taken, sees what they see.