The Long Way by Mary Imlay Taylor

It was midnight when Rachel went up-stairs to her own room and closed the door. She had dispensed with the attendance of her maid; she rarely let old Bantry, who had loved and tended her from babyhood, sit up late to wait on her, for Rachel was always thoughtful for others and had that natural sweetness of temperament which makes courtesy toward an inferior as much a matter of necessity as of inclination. She stood alone, therefore, in the dark room, looking out across the trim lawns, past the tall, Lombardy poplars and the tennis-court, to the distant city that, submerged as it was in night, was set with lines and cross-lines of vivid lights, as though arched and threaded and interwoven with a network of fallen stars.

Rachel went over to the window and, letting her hands rest lightly on the wide sill, looked out at a scene that seemed strangely unfamiliar. Even her recollections of the lovely and intimate prospect were suddenly disrupted and vague. The shock that had rudely disturbed her dream must have altered the outlines of the landscape and darkened the lovely profile of the Virginia hills. She was again conscious of the curious fancy that had submerged her world, with its wealth, its luxury, its inconsequence, in the mists of unreality, and to her fevered vision the scene before her began to assume a shadowy and impalpable aspect, while the lights of the distant city receded farther and farther into the night.