thehushoffeverish，intolerableexpectation。Thestillearth，theheavyflowers，eventhegrowingdarkness，breathedtheexhaustionofprotractedwaiting。Carolinefeltthatsheoughttogo；thatitwaswrongtostay；thatthehourandtheplacewereastreacherousasherownreflections。Sheroseandbegantopacethefloor，steppingsoftly，asthoughinfearofawakeningsomeone，herfigure，initsthindrapery，diaphanouslyvagueandwhite。Stillunabletoshakeofftheobsessionoftheintensestillness，shesatdownatthepianoandbegantorunoverthefirstactoftheWalkure，thelastofhisrolestheyhadpracticedtogether；playinglistlesslyandabsentlyatfirst，butwithgraduallyincreasingseriousness。Perhapsitwasthestillheatofthesummernight，perhapsitwastheheavyodorsfromthegardenthatcameinthroughtheopenwindows；butassheplayedtheregrewandgrewthefeelingthathewasthere，besideher，standinginhisaccustomedplace。Intheduetattheendofthefirstactsheheardhimclearly:“ThouarttheSpringforwhichIsighedinWinter’scoldembraces。“Onceashesangit，hehadputhisarmabouther，hisonehandunderherheart，whilewiththeotherhetookherrightfromthekeyboard，holdingherashealwaysheldSieglindewhenhedrewhertowardthewindow。Shehadbeenwonderfullythemistressofherselfatthetime；neitherrepellentnoracquiescent。Sherememberedthatshehadratherexulted，then，inherself-control——whichhehadseemedtotakeforgranted，thoughtherewasperhapsthewhisperofaquestionfromthehandunderherheart。“ThouarttheSpringforwhichIsighedinWinter’scoldembraces。“Carolineliftedherhandsquicklyfromthekeyboard，andshebowedherheadinthem，sobbing。
Thestormbrokeandtherainbeatin，spatteringhernightdressuntilsheroseandloweredthewindows。Shedroppeduponthecouchandbeganfightingoveragainthebattlesofotherdays，whiletheghostsoftheslainroseasfromasowingofdragon’steeth，Theshadowsofthings，alwayssoscornedandflouted，boredownuponhermercilessandtriumphant。Itwasnotenough；thishappy，useful，well-orderedlifewasnotenough。Itdidnotsatisfy，itwasnotevenreal。No，theotherthings，theshadows-theyweretherealities。Herfather，poorHeinrich，evenhermother，whohadbeenabletosustainherpoorromanceandkeepherlittleillusionsamidthetasksofascullion，werenearerhappinessthanshe。Hersurefoundationwasbutmadeground，afterall，andthepeopleinKlingsor’sgardenweremorefortunate，howeverbarrenthesandsfromwhichtheyconjuredtheirparadise。
Thelodgewasstillandsilent；herfitofweepingover，Carolinemadenosound，andwithintheroom，aswithoutinthegarden，wastheblacknessofstorm。Onlynowandthenaflashoflightningshowedawoman’sslenderfigurerigidonthecouch，herfaceburiedinherhands。
Towardmorning，whentheoccasionalrumblingofthunderwasheardnomoreandthebeatoftheraindropsupontheorchardleaveswassteadier，shefellasleepanddidnotwakenuntilthefirstredstreaksofdawnshonethroughthetwistedboughsoftheappletrees。Therewasamomentbetweenworldandworld，when，neitherasleepnorawake，shefeltherdreamgrowthin，meltingawayfromher，feltthewarmthunderherheartgrowingcold。Somethingseemedtoslipfromtheclingingholdofherarms，andshegroanedprotestinglythroughherpartedlips，followingitalittlewaywithflutteringhands。Thenhereyesopenedwideandshesprangupandsatholdingdizzilytothecushionsofthecouch，staringdownatherbare，coldfeet，atherlaboringbreast，risingandfallingunderheropennightdress。
Thedreamwasgone，butthefeverishrealityofitstillpervadedherandshehelditasthevibratingstringholdsatone。InthelasthourtheshadowshadhadtheirwaywithCaroline。Theyhadshownherthenothingnessoftimeandspace，ofsystemanddiscipline，ofcloseddoorsandbroadwaters。