all we have never
heard or seen!"

"And oh! are we forgot?" cried Electra, laying a lip upon a cherry.

"There's not a poet in his teens but warbles of you morn, noon, and
night," I answered. "There's not a lover mad, young, true, and tender,
but borrows your azure, and your rubies, and your roses, and your
stars, to deck his sweetheart's name with."

"Boys perhaps," cried Julia softly, "but _men_ soon forget."

"Youth never," I replied.

"Why 'Youth'?" said Dianeme. "Herrick was not always young."

"Ay, but all men once were young, please God," I said, "and youth is
the only 'once' that's worth remembrance. Youth with the heart of
youth adores you, ladies; because, when dreams come thick upon them,
they catch your flying laughter in the woods. When the sun is sunk,
and the stars kindle in the sky, then your eyes haunt the twilight.
You come in dreams, and mock the waking. You the mystery; you the
bravery and danger; you the long-sought; you the never-won; memories,
hopes, songs ere the earth is mute. You will always be loved, believe
me, O bright ladies, till youth fades, turns, and loves no more." And
I gazed amazed on cherries of such potency as these.

"But once, sir," said Julia timidly, "we were not only loved but
_told_ we were loved."

"Where is the pleasure else?" cried Dianeme.

"Besides," said Electra, "Anthea says if we might but find where Styx
flows one draught--my mere palmful--would be sweeter than all the
poetry ever writ, save some."

"It is idle," cried Dianeme; "Herrick himself admired us most on
paper."

"And ink makes a cross even of a kiss, that is very well known," said
Julia.

"Ah!" said I, "all men have eyes; few see. Most men have tongues:
there is but one Robin Herrick."

"I will tell you a secret," said Dianeme.

And as if a bird of the air had carried her voice, it seemed a hush
fell on sky and greenery.

"We are but fairy-money all," she said, "an envy to see. Take
us!--'tis all dry leaves in the hand. Herrick stole the honey, and the
bees he killed. Blow never so softly on the tinder, it flames--and
dies."

"I heard once," said Electra, with but a thought of pride, "that had I
lived a little, little earlier, I might have been the Duchess of
Malfi."

"I too, Flatterer," cried Julia, "I too--Desdemona slain by a
blackamoor. To some it is the cold hills and the valleys 'green and
sad,' and the sea-birds' wailing," she continued in a low, strange
voice, "and to some