The light had burnt down very low, and gave forth a dim fitful glare, hardly conquering the darkness. Now, again, I was standing still, lost in my struggle. Presently, with glad amazement, as though there had come an unlooked-for answer to my prayer, I heard a light step within. The footfalls seemed to hesitate; then they came again, the bolt of the door shot back, and a crack of faint light shewed. "Who's there?" asked Barbara's voice, trembling with alarm or some other agitation which made her tones quick and timid. I made no answer. The door opened a little wider. I saw her face as she looked out, half-fearful, yet surely also half-expectant. Much as I had desired her coming, I would willingly have escaped now, for I did not know what to say to her. I had rehearsed my speech a hundred times; the moment for its utterance found me dumb. Yet the impulse I had felt was still on me, though it failed to give me words. "I thought it was you," she whispered. "Why are you there? Do you want me?" Lame and halting came my answer. "I was only passing by on my way to bed," I stammered. "I'm sorry I roused you." "I wasn't asleep," said she. Then after a pause she added, "I--I thought you had been there some time. Good-night." She bade me good-night, but yet seemed to wait for me to speak; since I was still silent she added, "Is our companion gone to bed?" "Some little while back," said I. Then raising my eyes to her face, I said, "I'm sorry that you don't sleep." "Alas, we both have our sorrows," she returned with a doleful smile. Again there was a pause. "Good-night," said Barbara. "Good-night," said I. She drew back, the door closed, I was alone again in the passage.