Cyclona caused the cellar to be lighted, according to Seth's directions, until there was no dark spot in it. Light gleamed throughout, if not the light of day, the light of electrics.
"I never in my life," declared Hugh, "saw so light a cellar. It is like a conservatory."
By the time the house was finished, it was the wonder of the Magic City, which itself was the wonder of the West for its beautiful houses.
Then, when carpenter, painter, wood-carver and decorator had departed, and the house stood in the sunshine, a gem of a house, surpassing, if possible, in beauty, the house of Seth's imaginings, he came to Cyclona for the last time in a dream. He stood in the dimness of a low-roofed room, looking out of a window. His face was inexpressibly sad. He stood there stilly for a long time, looking out of the window.
Then there rushed through Cyclona's dream the heavy whirring roar of the wind, the moan of the wind, the wail of the wind.
Cyclona started out of the dream with a cry.
What had happened? What was it? What was it?
It was as if her life had gone out all at once like the flame of a candle. It was as if her heart-strings had snapped asunder.
What was it? What was it?
She lay back among her pillows, trembling in the dark, afraid of she knew not what, her wide eyes agaze at the ceiling's shadows.