It was her singing， however， which most showed that otherexistence in her existence. When she sang at her spinningwheelor her loom， or knelt battling clothes on the bank of thebayou， her lips would kiss out the words， and the tune wouldrise and fall and tremble， as if Zepherin were just across there，anywhere； in fact， as if every blue and white lily might hide anear of him.
It was the time of the new moon， fortunately， when all situp late in the country. The family would stop in their talkingabout the wedding to listen to her. She did not know it herself，but it—the singing—was getting louder and clearer， and， poorlittle thing， it told everything. And after the family went to bedthey could still hear her， sitting on the bank of the bayou， orup in her window， singing and looking at the moon travelingacross the lily prairie—for all its beauty and brightness nomore beautiful and bright than a heart in love.
It was just past the middle of the week， a Thursday night.
The moon was so bright the colors of the lilies could be seen，and the singing， so sweet， so far-reaching—it was the essenceof the longing of love. Then it was that the miracle happenedto her. Miracles are always happening to the Acadians. Shecould not sleep， she could not stay in bed. Her heart drove herto the window， and kept her there， and—among the civilizedit could not take place， but here she could sing as she pleasedin the middle of the night； it was nobody’s affair， nobody’sdisturbance. “Saint Ann！ Saint Joseph！ Saint Mary！” She heardher song answered！ She held her heart， she bent forward， shesang again. Oh， the air was full of music！ It was all music！ Shefell on her knees； she listened， looking at the moon； and， withher face in her hands， looking at Zepherin. It was God’s choirof angels， she thought， and one with a voice like Zepherin！
Whenever it died away she would sing again， and again， andagain—
“HER HEART DROVE HER TO THE WINDOW”.
But the sun came， and the sun is not created， like the moon，for lovers， and whatever happened in the night， there was workto be done in the day. Adorine worked like one in a trance， herface as radiant as the upturned face of a saint. They did notknow what it was， or rather they thought it was love. Love isso different out there， they make all kinds of allowances for it.
But， in truth， Adorine was still hearing her celestial voices orvoice. If the cackling of the chickens， the whir of the spinningwheel，or the “bum bum” of the loom effaced it a moment， shehad only to go to some still place， round her hand over her ear，and give the line of a song， and—it was Zepherin—Zepherinshe heard.
She walked in a dream until night. When the moon cameup she was at the window， and still it continued， so faint， sosweet， that answer to her song. Echo never did anything moreexquisite， but she knew nothing of such a heathen as Echo.
Human nature became exhausted. She fell asleep where shewas， in the window， and dreamed as only a bride can dreamof her groom. When she awoke， “Adorine！ Adorine！” thebeautiful angel voices called to her； “Zepherin！ Zepherin！”
she answered， as if she， too， were an angel， signaling anotherangel in heaven. It was too much. She wept， and that brokethe charm. She could hear nothing more after that. All that daywas despondency， dejection， tear-bedewed eyes， and tremulouslips， the commonplace reaction， as all know， of love exaltation.
Adorine’s family， Acadian peasants though they were， knewas much about it as any one else， and all that any one knowsabout it is that marriage is the cure-all， and the only cure-all，for love.
“ALL THAT DAY WAS DESPONDENCY， DEJECTION.”
And Zepherin？ A man could better describe his side of thatweek； for it， too， has mostly to be described from imaginationor experience. What is inferred is that what Adorine longedand thought and looked in silence and resignation， accordingto woman’s way， he suffered equally， but in a man’s way，which is not one of silence or resignation，—at least when oneis a man of eighteen，—the last interview， the near wedding，her beauty， his love， her house in sight， the full moon， the long，wakeful nights.
He took his pirogue； but the bayou played with his impatience，maddened his passion， bringing him so near， to meander with himagain so far away. There was only a short prairie between himand—， a prairie thick with lily-roots—one could almost walkover their heads， so close， and gleaming in the moonlight. Butthis is all only inference.
The pirogue was found tethered to the paddle stuck uprightin the soft bank， and—Adorine’s parents related the rest.
Nothing else was found until the summer drought had baredthe swamp.
There was a little girl in the house when we arrived—all elsewere in the field—a stupid， solemn， pretty child， the child of abrother. How she kept away from Adorine， and how much thattestified！
It would have been too painful. The little arms around herneck， the head nestling to her bosom， sleepily pressing againstit. And the little one might ask to be sung to sleep. Sung tosleep！
The little bed-chamber， with its high mattressed bed， coveredwith the Acadian home-spun quilt， trimmed with netting fringe，its bit of mirror over the bureau， the bottle of perfumed greaseto keep the locks black and glossy， the prayer-beads and blessedpalms hanging on the wall， the low， black polished spinningwheel，the loom，—the métier d’ Adorine famed throughoutthe parish，—the ever goodly store of cotton and yarn hanksswinging from the ceiling， and the little square， open windowwhich looked under the mossy oak-branches to look over theprairie； and once again all blue and white lilies—they were allthere， as Adorine was there； but there was more—not there.
