for something vague and impossible: that she might see Eros, that he would come to her, that she would fall at his feet, that he would forgive her tenderly, and take her away with him. Impossible. “What was impossible? Could not everything be possible? Had he not followed the track of her tears? had he not found her in the arms of the Sphinx?” Oh, she hoped, she hoped, she hoped more definitely! Her remorse-burned soul longed for the balsam of his love in the palace of crystal, for the sounds of his lyre, for the tender words in the garden of the Present.
She hoped, she gazed. . . .
In the pale glow of the morning sun, the violet mist cleared up, and parted like violet curtains. . . .
She gazed: there was the Present. . . .
There Eros would be, mourning for his naughty Psyche!
There he would presently forgive her. . . .
Oh, how she hoped, how she longed! . . . . She longed; she stretched out her arms and dared cry in a plaintive voice:
“Eros!”
The wind blew through bush and shrub and sang the approach of winter. The violet
