But there was my promise to Hester -- that promise give by her deathbed . I could not break it , and I told him so . It was the hardest thing I had ever done . He did not go away quietly this time . He pleaded and reasoned and reproached . Every word of his hurt me like a knife-thrust . But I could not break my promise to the dead . If Hester had been living I would have braved her wrath and her estrangement and gone to him . But she was dead and I could not do it . Finally he went away in grief and anger . That was three weeks ago -- and now I sat alone in the moonlit rose-garden and wept for him . But after a time my tears dried and a very strange feeling came over me . I felt calm and happy , as if some wonderful love and tenderness were very near me . And now comes the strange part of my story -- the part which will not , I suppose , be believed . If it were not for one thing I think I should hardly believe it myself . I should feel tempted to think I had dreamed it . But because of that one thing I know it was real . The night was very calm and still . Not a breath of wind stirred . The moonshine was the brightest I had ever seen .
In the middle of the garden , where the shadow XXXXX the poplars did not fall , it was almost as bright as day .
If after for in knife-thrust like night of over to