Oh, was it in the dead of night,  
Or in the dark before the day,
 
You came to me and kneeling, knew
 
The thing that I would never say?
 
There was no star, nor any moon,
 
There was no light from pole to pole,
 
And yet you saw the secret thing,
 
That I had hid within my soul.
 
You saw the secret and the ,
 
You bowed your head and went your way—
 
Oh, was it in the dead of night,
 
Or in the dark that brings the day?
 
For the next fortnight Elizabeth lived in a dream from which she scarcely woke by day. The dream life—the dream love—the dream itself—these became her life. In the moments that came nearest the waking she trembled, because if the dream was her life, the waking would be death. But for the rest of the time she walked in a trance. Earth budded, and the birds built nests. The green of woodland places went down under a flood of . The children made cowslip balls. All day long the sun shone out of a blue sky, and at night David came to her. Always he came at night, and went away in the dawn. And he remembered nothing.
 
 
Once she put her face to his in the darkness, and said:
 
“Oh, David, won’t you remember—won’t you ever remember? Am I only the Woman of the Dream? When will you remember?”
 
Then David was troubled in his dream, and stirred and went from her an hour before the time of his going.
 
Towards the end of the fortnight her trance wore thin. It was then that everything she saw or read seemed to press in upon one sore spot. If she went to the Mottisfonts’, there was Mary with her talk of Edward and the baby. Edward!—Elizabeth could have laughed; but the laughter went too. If there were not much of Edward, at least Mary had all that there was. And the child—did not she, too, desire children? But the child of a dream. How could she give to David the child of a dream already forgotten? If she walked, there were lovers in every lane, young lovers, who loved each other by day and in the eye of the sun. If she took up a book—once what she read was:
 
Come to me in my dreams, and then
 
By day I shall be well again!
 
For then the night will more than pay
 
The hopeless of the day.
 
and another time, Kingsley’s Dolcino to Margaret. Then came a day when she opened her Bible and read:
 
“If a man walk in the night, he stumbleth, because there is no light in him.”
 
That day she came broad awake. The passed from her. Her brain was clear, and her conscience—the inner vision rose before her, showing her an image troubled and confused. What had she done? And what was she doing now? Day by day David looked at her with the eyes of a friend, and night by night he came to her, the lover of a dream. Which was the reality? Which was the real David? If the David of the dream were real, conscious in sleep of some mysterious oneness, the sense of which was lost in the glare of day—then she could wait, and bear, and hope, till the realisation was so strong that the sun might shine upon it and show to David awake what the sleeping David knew.
 
 
But if the David of the dream were not the real David, then what was she? Mistress and no wife—the mistress of a dream mood that never touched Reality at all.
 
Two scalding tears in Elizabeth’s eyes—two and no more. The others burned her heart.
 
And the thought stayed with her.
 
That evening after dinner Elizabeth looked up from her . The silence had grown to be too full of thoughts. She could not bear it.
 
“What are you reading, David?” she asked.
 
He laughed and said:
 
“Sentimental poetry, ma’am. Would you have suspected me of it? I find it very .”
 
“Do you?”
 
She paused, and then said with a flutter in her throat:
 
“Do you ever write poetry now, David? You used to.”
 
“Yes, I remember boring you with it.”
 
He coloured a little as he .
 
“But since then?”
 
“Oh, yes——”
 
“Show me some——”
 
“Not for the world.”
 
“Why not?”
 
“Poetry is such an awful give away. How any one ever dares to publish any, I don’t know. I suppose they get hardened. But one’s most private letters aren’t a patch on it. One puts down all one’s , one’s moonstruck fancies, the ravings of one’s inanest moments. Mine are not for circulation, thanks.”
 
Elizabeth did not laugh. Instead she said, quite seriously,
 
“David, I wish you would show me some of it.”
 
He looked rather surprised, but got up, and presently came back with some papers in his hand, and threw them into her lap.
 
“There. There’s one there that’s rather odd. It’s rotten poetry, but it gave me the oddest feelings when I wrote it. See if it does the same to you,” and he laughed.
 
There were three poems in Elizabeth’s lap. The first was a vigorous bit of work—a with a good ballad swing to it. Elizabeth read it and applauded.
 
“This is much better than your old things,” she said, and he was manifestly pleased.
 
The next was a set of clever verses on a political topic of passing interest. Elizabeth laughed over it and laid it aside. Her thoughts were pleasantly diverted. Anything was welcome that brought her nearer to the David of the day.
 
She took up the third poem. It was called:
 
Egypt
 
............