Since long she had imagined that nothing more could touch her withered heart; but the sight of these mortals, so full of beauty, purity, and light, had filled her with a new benevolence, and she longed with an unspeakable longing to help them if she could. She was moved by conflicting feelings, asking herself if Stella's marvellous visions were worth one poor human kiss, one enchanted awakening to the wonders of love. Oh, what use was all her long-accumulated wisdom if it failed her at a moment like this! What should she do? Should she tell the enamoured youth to go his way, not to waste his days running after something that could never be? But it would break his heart; was he not a dreamer of dreams, and therefore a kindred soul to the solitary maiden who had never seen anything but pictures that certainly were not of this world. Sometimes she felt an overpowering desire that a sweet miracle might come to pass, and that these two lovely innocents should both at the same instant put their lips to the full cup of Life. Even ... even ... yes, death in attainment; would it be so terrible a thing! Ah! But does death ever mercifully cover with his wings two living hearts at once? Does he not always leave the one in cold misery to carry his despair alone? So many heavy problems! and she who had thought that her overburdened brain had already solved the mysteries of life! One evening she sat thus alone, pondering over all these questions to which she could find no answer. The early dusk was descending slowly over one of autumn's last fine days, and darkness was also rising out of the cold barren earth, meeting the coming night half-way. The sky was covered by leaden clouds, dashed by streaks of glowing red, where the sun resentfully opposed the grey shadows that strove to hide him out of sight. The air was chilly and the very old woman shivered, feeling forsaken and sad and useless. Over the sombre expanse that lay beyond, a faint mist mounted, like fleecy wool, giving each object the appearance of floating over the earth. The tents, the gypsies that moved about, the tethered horses, the slinking dogs, all seemed to have lost their bases and to be floating in the air. Zorka was weary, too tired to think. She was only allowing her mind to wander slowly through the past. The fire, that young hands always built up beside her venerable grey head, leapt and sprang like restless spirits eternally striving after unattainable heights, casting fantastic lights upon her crouching form. It was a picture of old age, in all its forlorn, colourless sadness, from which all else has been taken except the weary comfort of looking back. Zorka was remembering the distant years when she, too, had known wild love and scorching hate; when the day had been a long smile of promise, when for her also young hearts had beaten with passionate desire.