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 “Who comes there?” asked a voice, tired, weak, and faint.

Then the men left Psyche alone, and she was with Astra, and she saw her sister in the twilight on the terrace, sitting before her telescope, surrounded by globes and rolls of heavy parchment spread out. And Psyche saw Astra, looking very old, with thin grey hair, which hung down her wax-white face, from which two dull eyes stared out; her white dress hung down limp on her sunken shoulders, her withered breast, and attenuated limbs. Bitter dejection was in her dull eyes; her thin hand hung down powerless, tired, and incapable of work, and her voice, faint and weak, said:

“Who comes there?”

“I, Psyche, your little sister, come back, O Astra, as a penitent. . . . !”

“As a penitent?”

“Yes, I fled, committed sin, and now I will do penance. . . .”

Astra mused.

“It is true,” she murmured. “I remember, little Psyche. Come nearer. Take my hand, I cannot see you.”

“The night is dark, Astra: there are few