e been and everything
you are and everything you are going to be, for always. I love you with
a love that is yours alone. It never belonged to anybody else for the
merest fraction of a second, and never can. It was born for you, lives
for you, and will die when you need it no more."

"Ah," he said, "but I need it always. I've wanted you all my life."

"And will," she sighed, trying to release herself.

"Edith! Don't! I can't bear it! Take the golden hour as the glittering
sands of eternity sweep past us. So much is yours and mine, out of all
that is past and to come."

"As you wish," she responded. Then, after another pause, she said:
"Don't you want to read to me?"

Rosemary, dumb and hopeless, saw them sit down, close together, and lean
against the rock, where the sunlight made an aureole of Edith's hair.
He slipped his arm around her, and she laid her head upon his shoulder,
with a look of heavenly peace upon her pale face. Never had the contrast
between them been more painful than now, for Edith, with love in her
eyes, was exquisite beyond all words.

[Sidenote: The Red Book Again]

Alden took a small red book out of his pocket. With a pang, Rosemary
recognised it. Was nothing to be left sacred to her? She longed to break
from her hiding-place, face them both with stern accusing eyes, snatch
the book which meant so much to her--ask for this much, at least, to
keep. Yet she kept still, and listened helplessly, with the blood
beating in her ears.

In his deep, musical voice, Alden read once more: _Her Gifts_. "That,"
he said, softly, "was the night I knew."

"Yes," Edith answered. "The night I found the book and brought it home."

Rosemary well remembered when Edith had found the book. Her strange
sense of a dual self persisted, yet, none the less, her heart beat hard
with pain.

He went on, choosing a line here and there as he turned the marked
pages, but avoiding entirely some of the most beautiful sonnets because
of their hopelessness. At last, holding her closer, he began:

[Sidenote: Suiting the Action to the Word]

"On this sweet bank your head thrice sweet and dear
I lay, and spread your hair on either side,
And see the new-born woodflowers bashful-eyed
Look through the golden tresses here and there.
On these debatable borders of the year
Spring's foot half falters; scarce she yet may know
The leafless blackthorn-blossom from the snow;
And th