He lay looking at the light. There came a gentle tapping at his
window. A long streamer of honeysuckle, not yet in blossom, but
alive with the life of the summer, was blown by the air of the
morning against his window-pane, as if calling him to get up and
look out. He did get up and look out.
But he started back in such haste that he fell against the side of
his bed. Within a few yards of his window, bending over a bush, was
the loveliest face he had ever seen--the only face, in fact, he had
ever yet felt to be beautiful. For the window looked directly into
the garden of the next house: its honeysuckle tapped at his window,
its sweet-peas grew against his window-sill. It was the face of the
angel of that night; but how different when illuminated by the
morning sun from then, when lighted up by a chamber-candle! The
first thought that came to him was the half-ludicrous, all-fantastic
idea of the shoemaker about his grandfather's violin being a woman.
A vaguest dream-vision of her having escaped from his grandmother's
aumrie (store-closet), and wandering free amidst the wind and among
the flowers, crossed his mind before he had recovered sufficiently
from his surprise to prevent Fancy from cutting any more of those
too ridiculous capers in which she indulged at will in sleep, and as
often besides as she can get away from the spectacles of old Grannie
Judgment.
But the music of her revelation was not that of the violin; and
Robert vaguely felt this, though he searched no further for a
fitting instrument to represent her.
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