One day she begged piteously for water, and whispered, excitedly:
“He loves me; he told me he loved no one else! He is coming back—”
The delirium that had once befriended had now come to murder.
When another week had passed, the Death-wind blew softly. From the tomb of Tawiskara he came, and each violet in the Silver Creek Valley knelt humbly before him. The honeysuckle nodded reverently as he passed, and the soughing pine murmured a requiem.
He stopped at the wistaria that clung round the porch and trembled at his touch, and then passed onward through the open window, and played with the fair curls he had come to claim. She seemed to hear his call and to follow.
Down the great, wide steps she went, in a snowy gown with sprays of gentian that made it all the whiter, down through the door to welcome him, and on out into the moonlight. By the wistaria she stood and smiled at him.
He looked down into her face, and his words were sweet. How love had witched his features in answer to a woman’s prayer!
He reached forth his hands to her, and his summons seemed compelling. With lissome grace she moved toward his arms. His hand touched her breast, his dark eyes enraptured her, the burning passion of his soul thrilled each cord of her responsive heart into ecstasy.
Then the watchers at the bedside, who did not know that she had gone down to meet her lover again under the moonlit wistaria, saw the smile on her face, watched the pale lips purse winsomely and heard her whisper softly: