She was one of a large company at a house where she had never
been before--a beautiful house with a large garden behind. It was
a summer night, and the guests were wandering in and out at will,
and through house and garden, amid lovely things of all colors
and odors. The moon was shining, and the roses were in pale
bloom. But she knew nobody, and wandered alone in the garden,
oppressed with something she did not understand. Every now and
then she came on a little group, or met a party of the guests, as
she walked, but none spoke to her, or seemed to see her, and she
spoke to none.
She found herself at length in an avenue of dark trees, the end
of which was far off. Thither she went walking, the only living
thing, crossing strange shadows from the moon. At the end of it
she was in a place of tombs. Terror and a dismay indescribable
seized her; she turned and fled back to the company of her kind.
But for a long time she sought the house in vain; she could not
reach it; the avenue seemed interminable to her feet returning.
At last she was again upon the lawn, but neither man nor woman
was there; and in the house only a light here and there was
burning. Every guest was gone. She entered, and the servants,
soft-footed and silent, were busy carrying away the vessels of
hospitality, and restoring order, as if already they prepared for
another company on the morrow.
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