r own.
But when the night falls, then our own time is near. Softly it steals
through the forest, patiently waits in a corner within doors, trembles
mysteriously in the air, and wakes to life all that has slept in
us through the day. It comes to us with a soft glow, in a swooning
fragrance of flowers. All things else are sleeping, none are astir
save those...."

A woman's arm showed faintly white through the gloom.

"All save those...?" whispered the balsamine.

"Save those who find themselves and waken into bloom."

* * * * *

"Pansy--my wonderful delight--my love! You are like the
night--witching, ensnaring, all the mystery of a summer night, when
the summer lightning gleams."

"I never knew till now what youth is, what love is. Great and
beautiful, coming like a king in a golden chariot, beckoning, calling,
leading us on."

"Why are you trembling, love? And your hands are hot, and your
eyes--what are they saying?"

"I don't know--it's very hot. No, no, it's only that I'm too
happy...."

"Too happy?"

"No, no. I don't know what it is. Only I wish...."

"What is it? Tell me."

"I can't--I don't know what it is. I...."

"But tell me--can't you tell me what it is?"

"I can't say it. I--I'm frightened."

"Frightened? Why--have I frightened you?"

"You?--no, how could you? Only...."

"Tell me, then. Tell me. Only a word, and I shall know."

"I'm frightened--no, I can't say it. Only--Oh, I love you, if you knew
how I love you...."

* * * * *

"The loveliest hour I ever knew," whispered the balsamine again, "was
when I bloomed for the first time--when my petals opened, and the sun
came and kissed right into my heart."

"I know, I know," murmured the fuchsia. "And I that am blooming now
for the second time--should I not know? We put forth flowers again,
and it is always sweet, but never like the first time of all--nothing
can ever be like that. For it is all a mystery then; the mantle of
something wonderful and unknown is over us. And we feel it and thrill
at what is coming, and ask ourselves--will it be to-day? Hoping and
fearing--and knowing all the time that it will come. Never a thought
of past or future, only for the hour that is upon us ... until at last
it comes, it comes--petals that blush and unfold, and all things else
seem to fade away, and we melt into a glory of warmth and light."

* * * * *