a man loves once; and the two of them would bring the light of the sun to Crépuscule, and banish its shadows forever away. So dreamed Lenore for this unborn babe of hers. And then again, sometimes, by night, she would leave her bed and sit for hours together at that window where, long ago, Gerault had knelt in the hour of his passion. And Lenore would watch the quiet moon sail serenely through the sky, till it sank, at early dawn, under the other sea. And this vision of the setting moon never failed to bring peace to her heart. Sometimes, after Gerault’s example, but not in his tone, she would call down from her height upon the spirit of the lost Lenore that was supposed to walk the rocky shore at the base of the Castle cliff. But no answering cry ever reached her ears, and this was well; for what such a thing would have brought to her already morbid mind, it were sad to surmise. Nevertheless, in the nights thus spent, this gentle ghost came to have a personality for her, in which she rather rejoiced, for she felt that here must be some one in whom she could expect understanding of her secret grief. Lenore at night, living with the creatures of her fancy, was a strange little being, no more resembling the Lenore of daylight than a gnome resembles some bright fairy. And so well did she hide her midnight moods that no one in the Castle ever so much as suspected them. It was not till the middle of November that Alixe learned of the hope of Crépuscule; but when she did know, her tenderness for Lenore became something beautiful to see, and she partook both of Eleanore’s deep joy and of Lenore’s quiet content. Three or four days after the knowledge had come to her, Alixe was pacing up and down the terrace in front of the Castle, side by side with Lenore. It was a blustering, chilly day, and both young women drew their heavy mantles close around them as they watched the great flocks of gulls wheel and dip to the sea, looking like flurries of snowflakes against the sombre background of the sky. Far out in the bay one or two of the crude fishing-boats from St. Nazaire were beating their way southward toward their harbor, and then Lenore watched with eyes that dilated more and more with interest and desire. “Alixe,” she said suddenly, “canst thou sail a boat?” “Why dost thou ask?” “Certes, for that I would know.” Alixe laughed. “’Tis a reason,” she said. “Tell me, Alixe! Make me answer!” “Knowest thou not that, after the drowning of the demoiselle Lenore, it was forbidden any one in Crépuscule to put out upon the sea in any boat, though he might be able to walk the water like Our Lord?” “Hush, Alixe! But yet—thou’st not replied to me.”