As the moon approached its full, the roses had begun to drop their petals.  Under every bush was a scattered bit of fragrance that meant both death and resurrection.  Far down in the garden, where the sunken lily-pool mirrored the stars, the petals of golden roses drifted idly across the shining surface.

Rose had worn white at dinner, as she always did, now, the night the June moon came to its full.  Isabel, too, was in white, but with a difference, for as surely as the older woman’s white was mourning, her silver spangles were donned for joy.  At the table, Madame had done most of the talking, for Isabel’s conversational gifts were limited, at best, and Rose was weary beyond all words.

After dinner she went to the piano and struck a few aimless chords.  Isabel, with a murmured excuse, went up to her own room.  “Nothing that is not true,” said Rose to herself, steadily; “nothing that is not true.”

Presently a definite thought took shape in her mind.  To-morrow she would tell Aunt Francesca, and see if it could not be arranged for her to go away somewhere, anywhere, alone.  Or, if not to-morrow, at least the day after, as soon as she had seen him again.  She wanted one last look to take with her into the prison-house, where she must wrestle with her soul alone.

[Illustration:  musical notation.]

Her stiff fingers shaped the melody that Aunt Francesca loved, and into it went all her own longing, her love, and her pain.  The notes thrilled with an ecstasy of renunciation, and the vibrant chords trembled far out into the night.

[Illustration:  musical notation.]

A man entered the gate very quietly, paused, then turned into the garden, to soothe his wildly beating heart for a few moments with the balm of scent and sound.  Upstairs, behind the shelter of the swaying curtain, a shining figure drew back into the shadow.  Smiling, and with an agreeable sense of adventure, Isabel tiptoed down the back stairs, and entered the garden, unheard, by a side door.

With assumed carelessness, yet furtively watching, she made the circuit of the lily-pool, humming to herself.  A quick leap and a light foot on the grass startled her for an instant, then she laughed, for it was only Mr. Boffin, playing with his own dancing shadow.

[Illustration:  musical notation.]

The sound of the piano had become very faint, though the windows were open and the wind was in the right direction.  Isabel stopped at another bush, picked a few full-blown white roses, and sat down on a garden bench to remove the thorns.

“I wonder where he can be,” she said to herself.  “Surely he can’t have gone home again.”  She listened, but there was no sound save the distant piano, and the abrupt, playful purr of Mr. Boffin, as he pounced upon a fallen white rose.

Isabel put the flowers in her hair, consciously missing the mirror in which she was wont to observe the effect.  “He must have gone in while I was coming down,” she thought, “but I don’t see why he shouldn’t have gone straight in when he first came.”