and often, in spite of our friendliness,
I caught her glancing from Claire to me with a jealous look, as
though the mother guessed what the child suspected but dimly, if at
all.

So the summer slipped away, all too fleetly--to me, as I look back
after these weary years, in a day. But nevertheless much happened:
not much that need be written down in bald and pitiless prose, but
much to me who counted and treasured every moment that held my
darling near me. So the Loves through that golden season wound us
round with their invisible chains and hovered smiling and waiting.
So we drifted week after week upon the river, each time nearer and
nearer to the harbour of confession. The end was surely coming, and
at last it came.

It was a gorgeous August evening. A week before she had told me that
Saturday would be a holiday for her, and had, when pressed, admitted
a design of spending it upon the river. Need it be confessed that
Saturday saw me also in my boat, expectant? And when she came and
feigned pretty astonishment at meeting me, and scepticism as to my
doing any work throughout the week, need I say the explanation took
time and seemed to me best delivered in a boat? At any rate, so it
was; and somehow, the explanation took such a vast amount of time,
that the sun was already plunging down the western slope of heaven
when we stepped ashore almost on the very spot where first I had
heard her voice.

As the first film of evening came creeping over earth, there fell a
hush between us. A blackbird--the same, I verily believe--took the
opportunity to welcome us. His note was no longer full and unstudied
as in May. The summer was nearly over, and with it his voice was
failing; but he did his best, and something in the hospitality of his
song prompted me to break the silence.

"This is the very spot on which we met for the first time--do you
remember?"

"Of course I remember," was the simple answer.

"You do?" I foolishly burned to hear the assurance again.

"Of course--it was such a lovely day."

"A blessed day," I answered, "the most blessed of my life."

There was a long pause here, and even the blackbird could hardly fill
it up.

"Do you regret it?"

(Why does man on these occasions ask such a heap of questions?)

"Why should I?"

(Why does woman invariably answer his query with another?)

"I hope there is no reason," I answered, "and yet--oh, can you not
see of what that day was the beginning?