I come back to my room after my day's work, and my tired eyes are lured to
her.
She seems to me like a lake with its dark lonely waters edged by moonlight.
She has only her window for freedom: there the morning light meets her
musings, and through it her dark eyes like lost stars travel back to their
sky.
3
I remember the day.
The heavy shower of rain is slackening into fitful pauses, renewed gusts of
wind startle it from a first lull.
I take up my instrument. Idly I touch the strings, till, without my
knowing, the music borrows the mad cadence of that storm.
I see her figure as she steals from her work, stops at my door, and
retreats with hesitating steps. She comes again, stands outside leaning
against the wall, then slowly enters the room and sits down. With head
bent, she plies her needle in silence; but soon stops her work, and looks
out of the window through the rain at the blurred line of trees.
Only this--one hour of a rainy noon filled with shadows and song and
silence.
4
While stepping into the carriage she turned her head and threw me a swift
glance of farewell.
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