am--your everlasting flower--if a rough soldier may have such
a pretty comparison made in his favor. Do you think I shall be
everlasting to you?"

"When God dies my love will die, and not before," said Leam, with her
grave fervor, her voice of concentrated passion.

Her voice and manner thrilled Edgar. Her words, too, in their very
boldness were more exciting than the most refined commonplaces of
other women. It was this union of more than ordinary womanly reticence
with almost savage passion and directness that had always been Leam's
charm to Edgar; nevertheless, he hesitated for a few minutes, thinking
whether he should correct her manner of speech or not, and while
loving chasten her. Finally, he decided that he would not. She was
only his lover as yet: when she should be his wife it would then
be time enough to teach her the subdued conventionalism of English
feeling as interpreted by the English tongue used commonly by
gentlemen and ladies. Meanwhile, he must give her her head, as he
inwardly phrased it, so as not frighten her in the beginning and thus
make the end more difficult.

"You love me too much," he said in a low voice, half oppressed, half
excited by her words, for men are difficult to content. The love of
women given in excess of their demand embarrasses and maybe chills
them; and Edgar had a sudden misgiving, discomposing if quite natural,
which appeared, as it were, to check him like a horse in mid-career
and throw him back on himself disagreeably. He asked himself
doubtfully, Should he be able to answer this intense love so as
to make the balance even between them? He loved her dearly,
passionately--better than he had ever loved any woman of the many
before--but he did not love her like this: he knew that well enough.

"I cannot love you too much," said Leam. "You are my life, and you are
so great."

"And you will never tire of me?"

She looked into his face, her beautiful eyes worshiping him. "Do we
tire of the sun?" she answered.

"Where did you get all your pretty fancies from, my darling?" he
cried. "You have developed into a poet as well as a Psyche."

"Have I? If I have developed into anything, it is because I love you,"
she answered, with her sweet pathetic smile.

"But, my Leam, sweetheart--"

"Ah," she interrupted him with a look of passionate delight, "how I
like to hear you call me that! Mamma used to call me her heart. No one
else has since--I would not let any one if they had