ust be. I meant to tell him to-night,
but I could not.

It is half-past ten. Aunt Caroline has just been to my room, bless
her! I thought she was in bed.

"Have you room for this in your trunk, Milly?" she said. "I should
like you to hang it up in your room wherever you go."

It was a text she had painted for me. Written in gold among sprays
of lilies-of-the-valley shone "God is Love." Poor soul! she ought to
know.

Yes, to-morrow I shall tell him. I should have told him to-night. I
stayed at the Cottage until late; after supper he brought me home.
We were very silent. I kept on trying to begin, wondering how to say
it, and he had something, no doubt, in his thoughts. I knew all the
while that it was our last walk across the heath together; perhaps I
wanted to keep it entirely my own. I walked a step or two behind
him, so that my eyes might gaze their fill, and he did not seem to
feel my watching. I wanted to print his form forever in my memory.

We were in sight of the blue gate; we had not spoken for
half-a-mile, and had fallen very far apart. I turned suddenly giddy,
and spread my hands towards him, crying:

"Gabriel! Gabriel!"

He was very kind to me; he turned back and put his arm about my
waist, and we went on more slowly still, as silent as before. But,
all the while, something within me said: "Do you know where you are?
Do you know who holds you? In a few weeks, oh! in one hour, you
would sell your soul for one of these seconds."

Yet I could not feel; it seems to me now that I did not feel.

Within a few yards of the blue door we stood still. I said:

"Come no further, Gabriel."

But I held his hand to my side; I knew that I might never do so
again. We stood thus a few seconds, then I turned my face up
suddenly, and he kissed me on the eyes. And then he left me.

Why do I write this? It is merely as a picture before me. I feel
very little now; I am so cold.

And now he walks home across the heath. Good night, Gabriel. Why did
he kiss my eyes? It was better the first time.

All past, all gone, all dead. I cannot see that I need live in this
graveyard.

Perhaps I too shall die; who knows?

THE POSTSCRIPT.

There was a man who made unto himself wings, and thought to soar
upon them; but, as he rose into high Heaven, the Sun melted the wax
wherewith he had fastened the pinions on to his body, and the poor
fool, sinking to earth, was drowned in deep waters.

Now, as Icarus fell into t