A slight sound, the opening of a window, in the room next to hers, made her start.  That was Isabel’s room.  What was happening?  It was three o’clock in the morning.  Could Isabel be ill?

Very softly she opened her own window and leaned forth.  It was one of those warm spring nights that come in the midst of March gales.  There was a scent of violets on the air.  She thought again for a fleeting second of Scott and their walk through fairyland that morning.  And then she heard a voice, pitched very low but throbbing with an eagerness unutterable, and at once her thoughts were centred upon Isabel.

“Did you call me, my beloved?  I am waiting!  I am waiting!” said the voice.

It went forth into the sighing darkness of the night, and Dinah held her breath to listen, almost as if she expected to hear an answer.

There fell a long, long silence, and then there came a sound that struck straight to her warm heart.  It seemed to her that Isabel was weeping.

She left her window with the impetuosity of one actuated by an impulse irresistible; she crossed her own room, and slipped out into the dark passage just as she was.  A moment or two she fumbled feeling her way; and then her hand found Isabel’s door.  Softly she turned the handle, opened, and peeped in.

Isabel was on her knees by the low window-sill.  Her head with its crown of silver hair was bowed upon her arm and they rested upon the bundle of letters which Dinah had seen on the very first night that she had seen Isabel.  Old Biddy hovered shadow-like in the background.  She made a sign to Dinah as she entered, but Dinah was too intent upon her friend to notice.

Fleet-footed she drew near, and as she approached a long bitter sigh broke from Isabel and, following it, low-toned entreaties that pierced her anew with the utter abandonment of their supplication.

“Oh God,” she prayed brokenly.  “I am so tired—­so tired—­of waiting.  Open the door for me!  Let me out of my prison!  Let me find my beloved in the dawning—­in the dawning!”

Her voice sank, went into piteous sobbing.  She crouched lower in the depth of her woe.

Dinah stooped over her with a little crooning murmur of pity, and gathered her close in her arms.

Isabel gave a great start.  “Child!” she said, and then she clasped Dinah to her, leaning her face against her bosom.

Dinah was crying softly, but she saw that Isabel had no tears.  That sobbing came from her broken heart, but it brought no relief.  The dark eyes burned with a misery that found no vent, save possibly in the passionate holding of her arms.

“My darling,” she whispered presently, “did I wake you?”

“No, dearest, no!” Dinah was tenderly caressing the snowy hair; she spoke with an almost motherly fondness.  “I happened to be awake, and I heard you at the window.”

“Why were you awake, darling?  Aren’t you happy?”