With returning silence, with the lull of the chime, and the retreat of her small untamed and unknown protégé, she still resumed the dream, nestling to the vision’s side—listening to, conversing with it. It paled at last; as dawn approached, the setting stars and breaking day dimmed the creation of Fancy; the wakened song of birds hushed her whispers. The tale full of fire, quick with interest, borne away by the morning wind, became a vague murmur. The shape that, seen in a moonbeam, lived, had a pulse, had movement, wore health’s glow and youth’s freshness, turned cold and ghostly gray, confronted with the red of sunrise. It wasted. She was left solitary at last; she crept to her couch, chill and dejected.