Beneath her lay the garden, the lawn like a stretch of dusky silver, the bay-trees casting sharp shadows upon it, the portico of the music-room cut into black panels by its pillars. She stood gazing down upon it all with the air of one whose mind was full of dreams. The moon mirrored itself, twin images, within her eyes, and made her night-gear shine like snow under the torrent of her hair. Distant clocks began chiming suddenly, to be followed by the deep pealing of the hour. The sound roused the girl from her lethargy, like the challenge of a trumpet waking a sentinel at his post. The echoes of the chimes still seemed to be sweeping upward into the moonlight when she heard a sound below her in the house. It was like the snap of a turning lock, brief, crisp, and final. The striking of the hour might have had the significance of a signal to some one in the house. She was still listening for other sounds to follow when a shadow moved out between the outlines of the bay-trees on the lawn. Barbara leaned toward the window, and then drew back with an instinct of caution, still keeping her view of the moonlit garden. The shadow and the figure that cast it moved toward the music-room with the gliding motion attributed to ghosts. The breath of the night air seemed doubly cold upon her face and bosom for the moment. She saw the figure disappear under the portico of the music-room with all the mystery of the night to solemnize its passing. A slight shiver swept up her limbs toward her heart. Things may seem possible at such an hour that the reason might ridicule at noon. Yet she remembered the snap of the shooting lock, and that mere incident of sound held the supernatural vagueness of her thoughts in thrall. Still listening, she seemed to hear something that brought a sharp and almost fierce expression to her face. Holding her breath, she leaned against the window-jamb as though to steady herself against the slightest movement that might distract her sense of hearing. A murmur of voices came to her out of the silence of the night, like the rustle of aspen leaves in a light wind. Her body straightened suddenly, bearing its weight upon one out-stretched arm whose hand rested against the jamb of the window. Her eyes became brighter in the moonlight. Her throat showed white under her raised chin. Then turning as though impelled by some inspired thought, she moved toward the door, opened it, and stepped out into the gallery. Pausing for an instant, she began to walk slowly down the passageway toward a transomed window that gleamed white in the moonlight. She moved haughtily, with no shrinking haste, her head held high, her hands hanging at her sides. It was the poise of a sleep-walker, stately, wide-eyed, without a flicker of self-consciousness.