he was
wise enough to refrain. If he could believe it true, let him not tempt
his happiness; if faith were weak, why build a barrier against it? So
he kept silence.

"You found my violets!" whispered Gnulemah, with a shy smile. "You
understand all I do and am; it is happiness to be with you."

They sat down by mutual consent beneath a crooked old apple-tree,
which yet blossomed as pure and fresh as did the youngest in the
orchard. From beneath this white and perfumed tent was a view of the
distant city.

Gnulemah could not be called talkative, yet in giving her thoughts
expression she outdid vocabularies. Many fine muscles there were
around her eyes, at the corners of her mouth, and especially in the
upper lip,--whose subtile curvings and contractions spoke volumes of
question, appeal, observation. Her form by its endless shiftings
uttered delicate phrases of pleasure, surprise, or love; her hands and
fingers were orators, and eloquent were the curlings and tappings of
her Arab feet.

This kind of language would be blank to one used rather to hear words
than to feel them; but Balder, in, his present exalted mood, delighted
in it. Was there any enjoyment more refined than to see his thought,
before he had given it breath, lighten in the eyes of this daughter
of fire? and with his own eyes to catch the first pure glimmer of her
yet unborn fancies? A language genial of intimacy, for the talkers
must feel in order to utterance,--must meet each other, from the heart
outward, at every point. The human form is made of meanings. It is the
full thought of its Creator, comprising all other thoughts. Is it
blind chance or lifeless expediency that moulds the curves of woman's
bosom, builds up man's forehead like a citadel, and sets his head on
his shoulders? Is beauty beautiful, or are we cozened by congenial
ugliness? But Balder's philosophic scepticism should never have braved
a test like Gnulemah!

Except music, painting, sculpture,--all the arts and inspiration of
them,--waited on the nib of the pen, such talk as passed between these
two could not be written. Some things--and those not the least
profound and admirable of life--transcend the cunning of man to
interpret them, unless to an apprehension as fine as they! We are fain
to content ourselves with the husks.

"It must be happy there!" said Gnulemah, looking cityward. "So many
Balders and Gnulemahs!"

"Why happy?" asked the man of the world, with a faint smile.