read us the last canto,--will you?"

I had already read the first part of the poem to Constance, with his
permission.

Neither of them uttered a word.

"Come," said I; "Constance and I will set off at once, our things
are in the hall. Run up and fetch your manuscript, Gabriel."

I put my foot through the flounce of my petticoat on the way, so
Constance took me up to her room for a needle and cotton. When we
came down again, Gabriel was in the morning-room; he had drawn up
the blind and was watching the moon.

"I call this very nice," said I. "Our party is the better of the
two."

Constance lighted the lamp, and we sat down, all three, at the
table,--Gabriel with his back to the window, Constance opposite him,
and I between them, to the right of the table.

Then he began to read.

How it went with them I know not, but I was soon entirely lost in
what I heard. With my head upon my arm I listened, the visions that
he conjured filled my eyes, the music of his words engrossed my
ears; more beautiful in form and purpose than anything he yet had
written, this last canto filled me with joy and pride.

When the last words fell, I did not raise my head from the table.
Heaven knows why, but I did not want to let them see, not even them,
that the tears were gushing from my eyes.

I heard Gabriel collect his papers and put them into his pocket;
still none of us spoke. It seemed time to break the silence. I
lifted my head and looked up at my poet.

There he sat with head thrown back and quivering lips; his eyes,
wide with mingled fear and yearning, were fixed upon Constance,
whose white, uplifted face was as the mirror of his own. It was for
an instant only; the next, they turned to me.

And so the tale was told; we sat there, we three, blenched and
panic-stricken, gazing into each other's eyes.

The time had come. I rose, took their hands, and laid them together
on the table. I would have said something, but no words came; so,
smiling simply into the face of each, I bent and kissed the
intertwining fingers, then left the room. I groped my way into the
garden, and, standing on a flower-bed beneath the window, looked in
upon them. They sat as I had left them, with clasped hands and
mingled gaze. I think it was Constance that moved first, I am not
sure, but they rose suddenly and fell into each other's arms. For an
instant I looked upon them with a strange sense of exultation, as
if, perhaps, I were the Spirit of Lov