But she neither loved the light nor mourned the
shadow.
Then were her ears invaded with a confused murmur, as of the
mingling of all sweet sounds of the earth--of wind and water, of
bird and voice, of string and metal--all afar and indistinct.
Next arose about her a whispering, as of winged insects, talking
with human voices; but she listened to nothing, and heard nothing
of what was said: it was all a tiresome dream, out of which
whether she waked or died it mattered not.
Suddenly she was taken between two hands, and lifted, and seated
upon knees like a child, and she felt that some one was looking
at her. Then came a voice, one that she never heard before, yet
with which she was as familiar as with the sound of the blowing
wind. And the voice said, "Poor child! something has closed the
valve between her heart and mine." With that came a pang of
intense pain. But it was her own cry of speechless delight that
woke her from her dream.
CHAPTER XIII.
THE HUMAN SACRIFICE.
The same wind that rushed about the funeral of William Marston in
the old churchyard of Testbridge, howled in the roofless hall and
ruined tower of Durnmelling, and dashed against the plate-glass
windows of the dining-room, where the three ladies sat at lunch.
Immediately it was over, Lady Malice rose, saying:
"Hesper, I want a word with you. Come to my room.
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