is

"No whispering but of leaves, on which the breath
Of heaven plays music to the birds that slumber."

Yet this one sweet bird refuses rest, and, as though one of those
"small foules" that "slepen alle night with open eye," sings on
courageously amidst the gloom.

Dorian, strolling absently through the walks, and into the shrubberies
beyond, listens, and feels some sense of comfort (that has yet with it
a touch of pain) creep through him as the nightingale's sweet song
smites upon his ear.

Yet this is not the only sound that disturbs the quiet of the night.
Sadly, mournfully, a half-suppressed sob falls upon the air.

Branscombe starts, and looks round suddenly, but can see nothing. No
footsteps make themselves heard. The shrubs are sufficiently thick to
conceal the presence of any one, yet it seems to him as if the thought
of that sob was born of fancy, and that the earthly owner of it is
unborn.

Then some ray from the brilliant moon opens his eyes, and he sees a
woman's figure standing in a somewhat disconsolate attitude, with her
back against a tall elm, and her eyes fixed wistfully upon the distant
windows, through which the lights are streaming, and the passing to
and fro of the dancing crowd may be distinctly seen.

Dorian, recognizing her, goes quickly up to her and lays his hand upon
her shoulder. It is Ruth Annersley!

She stifles a low cry, and, turning to him, grows even a shade paler
than she was a moment since.

"Ruth," says Dorian, "what on earth brings you here at this hour?"

For a moment she makes him no answer. She raises her hand to brush
away the tears that still lie heavily upon her cheeks, and then moves
a little away from him, so as to elude his touch.

"I came to see them dancing," she says, at length, with difficulty; "I
thought it would be a pretty sight; and--it is--I have been so--so
pleased."

The words seem to choke her. With a movement that is terribly pathetic
she lays her hand upon her heart; and then Dorian, following the
direction her eyes have taken, sees what they see.

In an open window, directly opposite to where they are standing, two
figures can be seen in very close proximity to each other. Beyond are
the forms of the dancers; the faint sweet strains of the band float
out to meet the midnight air; but the two in the window seem lost to
all but the fact of their own existence, and that they are together.
At least, so it seems to the onlookers in the shrub