think of that,--your world of men and women? Even that my
father takes it sadly does not move me overmuch, though I wish he saw
the joy of being. (How full it is, O, how full! And you have brought me
the cup. I will drink carefully, sweetheart, though so greedily. I will
not spill a drop.) He said to me, "You must know something of life
before you make new ties and take responsibilities. So you must go out
into the world. Mrs. Montrose is a good woman. She will be your teacher
in social walks, and she will introduce you to some men I knew long
ago. I can't give you definite plans. You wouldn't follow them if I
did." When I asked him if he would go, too, he said, "No, not yet." It
was best for me to cut loose from him for a time.

_So_, fine sweetheart! I am going back with you to your city. We are
not to be separated for a single day: perhaps not until the hour when
you stand up before your people and swear to cleave to me only. I read
that service yesterday, alone in the woods. Gods! how great it is! and
yet not great enough. I would not have it "till death." It should cover
the abyss--and hell. Do you remember to think with every breath you
draw how a man loves you? how he would fain have you _his_ breath,
that he might draw you into his very veins? Ah, what words are there
for the telling? How poverty-stricken are we that there should be no
way to make you mine save by swearing oaths! If I could give you my
blood--but even that is less dear to me than one instant in your
presence. If I could sacrifice the dearest thing I have--yet that would
not be life itself; it would be you. Sacrifice you to love, to prove I
love you! What wisdom were in that?

[Sidenote: _Zoe Montrose to Francis Hume_]

Dear,--Step back before it is too late. Do not come with us. No good
lies that way. Why should you leave your happy island for the grimy
streets? There is strange irony, too, in your setting off with us, such
wayworn travelers. So might a spangled troup of weary players entice a
sleepy child that had only known the lambs and birds, and lain on
fragrant hay, to take some part in their ghastly mummery. What should
be his fate? footsore, bewildered, to fall beside a wayside ditch, and
gasp his breath out in the dusty fern. Go back! I'll none of you. I
won't take the responsibility of your shining soul. Stay here, and
write the story of your island. Tell the weary old world what the
leaves whisper and how the flower-buds open. And