nt." But he went on at once, as
if to keep her from interrogating that, or even perhaps remembering it.
"I have forbidden myself to think of some things. When they came upon
me, I went out and dug them into the ground."

She was filled that night with an imperative sense of life. It made her
forget even him and his claim to be heard. The great resolve in her to
be for once understood was like a crowning wave drenching the farthest
shore.

"I have never had enough of life," she avowed passionately. "I have
always had the appearance of it, the promise that the next minute the
cup would be given me. But the cup was never there. Or if it was, there
was muddy water in it. The lights have never been bright enough, the
music has never gone on long enough. Why!" She seemed frightened. "Is
that like my father? Do I get that from him?"

"It is because you are young," said Osmond. "And because you are
beautiful and the world ought to be yours--to put your foot on it."

The passion of his voice recalled her.

"No," she answered humbly. "Not to put my foot on anything. No! no! no!
Playmate," she added, "you are the dearest thing in all the world."

The voice laughed out harshly. The man was lying prone at full length
where she could not see him, his hands upon the earth he loved, his
fostering, yet unheeding mother that had saved his life for her own
service. At that moment, it seemed to him, his eye turned inward upon
himself, as if there were foolish irony in that friendly comment. He
looked to himself rather one of the earth forces, supremely strong,
waiting for some power to guide it.

"Elemental things are no good until they are harnessed and made to
work," he heard himself saying, as in a trance; and then it was apparent
she had not noticed, for she went on,--

"To be able to speak to any one as I speak to you! Playmate, it seems to
me men might as well kill a child as kill women's innocent faith in
love."

"But men love, too," he heard himself answering her.

"If I thought that! But when anything so beautiful turns into something
base, and the creature we worshiped laughs and says it is always so, he
kills something in us. And he can't bring it to life again. Neither he
nor any other man can make it live. It is a dream, and the thought of it
hurts us too much for us even to dream it over again.--What is that?"

Out of his web of pain he could only answer,--

"What, playmate?"

"Something sweet in the air."