From another corner came the sound of slow, deep breathing. Outside the circle of candlelight, Madame had fallen asleep in her chair. The full June moon had shadowed the net curtain upon the polished floor and laid upon it, in silhouette, an arabesque of oak leaves. It touched Madame's silvered hair to almost unearthly beauty as she leaned back with her eyes closed, and brought a memory of violets and sun from the gold-tasselled amethyst that hung on her breast. The small slender hands lay quietly, one on either arm of her chair. A white crêpe shawl, heavy with Chinese embroidery, lay over her shoulders,--a gift from Edith. A Summer wind, like a playful child, stole into the room, lifted the deep silk fringe of the shawl, made merry with it for a moment, then tinkled the prisms on the chandelier and ran away again. The fairy-like sound of it, as though it were a far, sweet bell, chimed in with Edith's dreamy chords and brought her to herself with a start. She turned quickly, saw that Madame was asleep, and stopped playing. "Go on," said Alden, in a low tone. "Please do." "I mustn't," she whispered, with her finger on her lips. "Your mother is asleep and I don't want to disturb her." "Evidently you haven't," he laughed. "Hush!" Edith's full, deep contralto took on an affected sternness. "You mustn't talk." [Sidenote: Edith's Room] "But I've got to," he returned. "Shall we go outdoors?" "Yes, if you like." "Don't you want a wrap of some sort?" "Yes. Wait a moment, and I'll get it." "No--tell me where it is, and I'll go." "It's only a white chiffon scarf," she said. "I think you'll find it hanging from the back of that low rocker, near the dressing-table." He went up-stairs, silently and swiftly, and paused, for a moment, at Edith's door. It seemed strange to have her permission to turn the knob and go in. He hesitated upon the threshold, then entered the sweet darkness which, to him, would have meant Edith, had it been blown to him across the wastes of Sahara. How still it was! Only the cheery piping of a cricket broke the exquisite peace of the room; only a patch of moonlight, upon the polished floor, illumined the scented dusk. He struck a match, and lighted one of the candles upon the dressing-table. The place was eloquent of her, as though she had just gone out. The carved ivory toilet articles--he could have guessed that she would not have silver ones,--the crystal puff box, with a gold top ornamented only by a monogram; no, it was not a monogram either, but interlaced initials trailing diagonally across it; the mirror, a carelessly crumpled handkerchief, and a gold thimble--he picked up each article with a delightful sense of intimacy. [Sidenote: A Man's Face] Face down upon the dressing-table was a photograph, framed in dull green leather. That, too, he took up without stopping to question the propriety of it. A man's face smiled back at him, a young, happy face, full of comradeship and the joy of life for its own sake.