Then, because she was trembling, she sat down on the window-seat and waited. The night came into the room and filled it. The trees moved above the water. The rumble of traffic in the High Street sounded very far away. It had nothing to do with the world in which Elizabeth waited. There was no wind to-night. It was very still and warm. The moon shone. When the door opened, Elizabeth knew that she had known that he would come. He crossed the room and took her in his arms. She felt his arms about her, she felt his kiss, and there was nothing of the unsubstantial stuff of dreams in his strong clasp. For one moment, as her lips kissed too, she thought that he was awake—that he had remembered, but as she stepped back and looked into his face she saw that he was in his dream. His eyes looked far away. Then he kissed her again, and dreaming or waking her soul went out of her and was his soul, her very consciousness was no more hers, but his, and she, too, saw that strange, moon-guarded shore, and she, too, heard the wind. But the night—the night was still. Where did it come from, this sudden rush of the wind, that seemed to blow through her? From far away it came, from very far away, and it passed through her and on to its own far place again, a rushing eddy of wind, whirling about some unknown centre. Elizabeth was giddy and faint with the singing of that wind in her ears. The moon was in her eyes. She trembled, and hid them upon David’s breast. “David,” she whispered at last, and he answered her. “Love—love——” She turned a little from the light and looked at him. There was a smile upon his face, and his eyes smiled too. “Where are we?” she said. And David laid his face against hers and said: “We are in the Dream.” “David, what is the Dream? Do you know? Tell me.” “It is the Dream,” he said, “the old dream, the dream that has no waking.” “And who am I? Am I Elizabeth?” She feared so much to say it, and could not rest till it was said. “Elizabeth.” He repeated the word, and paused. His eyes clouded. “You are the Woman of the Dream.” “But I have a name——” “Yes—you have a name, but I have forgotten—if I could remember it. It is the name—the old name—the name you had before the moon went down. It was at night. You kissed me. There were so many trees. I knew your name. Then the moon went down, and it was dark, and I forgot—not you—only the name. Are you angry, love, because I have forgotten your name?” There was trouble in his tone. “No, not angry,” said Elizabeth, with a quiver in her voice. “Will you call me Elizabeth, David? Will you say Elizabeth to me?” He said “Elizabeth,” and as he said it his face changed. For a moment she thought that he was waking. His arms dropped from about her, and he drew a long, deep breath that was like a sigh. Then he went slowly from her into the darkness of his own room, walking as if he saw. Elizabeth fell on her knees by the window-seat and hid her face. The wind still sang in her ears.