isions after all,
and would end in a darkness beyond which she could see nothing, and in
which she would feel real physical pain, that would be almost
unbearable, though she knew that she would gladly bear it again and
again, for the sake of again seeing the phantasms of herself drawn in
mystic light upon the shadow.

They came and followed one upon another, like days of life. There was
the beautiful marble court with its deep portico, its pillars, and its
overhanging upper story, all gleaming in the low morning sun; she could
hear the water softly laughing its way through the square marble-edged
basins, level with the ground, she could smell the spring violets that
grew in the neatly trimmed borders, she knew the faces of the statues
that stood between the columns, and smiled at her. She knew herself,
young, golden-haired, all in white, a little pale from the night's vigil
before the eternal fire, just entering the court as she came back from
the temple, and then standing quite still for a moment, facing the
morning sun and drinking in long draughts of the sweet spring air. From
far above, the matin song of birds came down out of the gardens of
Caesar's palace, and high over the court the sounds of the Forum began to
ring and echo, as they did all day and half the night.

It was herself, her very self, that was there, resting one hand upon a
fluted column and looking upwards, her eyes, her face, her figure, real
and unchanged after ages, as they were hers now; and in her look there
was the infinite longing, the readiness to receive, which she felt still
and must feel always, to the end of time.

Now, the dream would move on, slowly and full of details. The lithe
dream figure would rest in the small white room at the upper end of the
court, and resting, would dream dreams within that dream; and, looking
on, she herself would know what they were. They would be full of a deep
desire to be free for ever from earth and body and life, joined for all
eternity with something pure and high that could not be seen, but of
which her soul was a part, mingled with the changing things for a time,
but to be withdrawn from them again, maiden and spotless as it had come
amongst them, a true and perfect Vestal.

The precious treasures in the secret places of the little temple would
pass away, the rudely carved wooden image of Pallas would crumble to
dust, the shields that had come down from heaven would fall to pieces in
green corros