s," Amory warned Rollo as he left him,
"and be back early. We may want you to get us ready for a mastodon
hunt."

"Yes, sir," said Rollo with simplicity, "I'll be back quite some
time before tea-time, sir."

St. George was smiling as they went down the corridor. He had been
vain of his love that, in Yaque as in America, remained the thing it
was, supreme and vital. But had not the simplicity of Rollo taken
the leap in experience, and likewise without changing? For a moment,
as he went down the silent corridors, lofty as the woods, vocal with
faint inscriptions on the uncovered stone, the old human doubt
assailed him. The very age of the walls was a protest against the
assumption that there is a touchstone that is ageless. Even if there
is, even if love is unchanging, the very temper of unconcern of his
valet might be quite as persistent as love itself. But the gallery
emptying itself into a great court open to the blue among graven
rafters, St. George promptly threw his doubt to the fresh,
heaven-kissing wind that smote their faces, and against mystery and
argument and age alike he matched only the happy clamour of his
blood. Olivia Holland was on the island, and all the age was gold.
In Yaque or on the continents there can be no manner of doubt that
this is love, as Love itself loves to be.

They emerged in the appeasing air of that perfect morning, and the
sweetness of the flowering trees was everywhere, and wide roads
pointed invitingly to undiscovered bournes, and overhead in the
curving wind floated the flags and streamers of those joyous, wizard
colours.

They went out into the rejoicing world, and it was like penetrating
at last into the heart of that "land a great way off" which holds
captive the wistful thought of the children of earth, and reveals
itself as elusively as ecstasy. If one can remember some journey
that he has taken long ago--Long Ago and Far Away are the great
touchstones--and can remember the glamourie of the hour and forget
the substructure of events, if he can recall the pattern and forget
the fabric, then he will understand the spirit that informed that
first morning in Yaque. It was a morning all compact of wonder and
delight--wonder at that which half-revealed itself, delight in the
ever-present possibility that here, there, at any moment, Olivia
Holland might be met. As for the wonder, that had taken some three
thousand years to accumulate, as nearly as one could compute; and as
for