shine far into the shadows, in spite of rock-hewn
portals, closed and barred.

"The knowledge of your love I have with me always, to steady me, to
guide me, to uplift me, to make even a grave warm and sweet. And to you,
with my own hands, I have brought the divine fire that shall not fail,
so what more need we ask of God, save that somewhere, sometime, in His
infinite compassion, we may be together, even though it may be in the
House not Made with Hands?

[Sidenote: Edith to Alden]

"Remember that I long for you, dream of you, hope for you, believe in
you, pray for you, and, above all else, love you, love you--love you.
And in all the ways of Heaven and for always, I am thine.

"E."

XXIII

Betrothal

[Sidenote: On the Hills by the Vineyard]

Desolation lay upon the vineyard. The fairy lace had been rudely torn
aside by invading storms and the Secret Spinners had entered upon their
long sleep. The dead leaves rustled back and forth, shivering with the
cold, when the winds came down upon the river from the hill. Caught, now
and then, upon some whirling gust, the leaves were blown to the surface
of the river itself, and, like scuttled craft, swept hastily to ports
unknown.

Rosemary escaped from the house early in the afternoon. Unable to go to
the Hill of the Muses, or up the river-road, she had taken a long,
roundabout path around the outskirts of the village and so reached the
hills back of the vineyard. The air of the valley seemed to suffocate
her; she longed to climb to the silent places, where the four winds of
heaven kept tryst.

She was alone, as always. She sighed as she remembered how lonely she
had been all her life. Except Alden, there had never been anyone to
whom she could talk freely. Even at school, the other children had, by
common consent, avoided the solitary, silent child who sat apart,
always, in brown gingham or brown alpaca, and taking refuge in the
fierce pride that often shields an abnormal sensitiveness.

[Sidenote: In Real Life]

She sat down upon the cold, damp earth and leaned against a tree,
wondering if it would not be possible for her to take cold and die. In
the books, people died when they wanted to, or, what was more to the
point, when other people wanted them to. It was wonderful, when you came
to think of it, how Death invariably aided Art.

But, in real life, things were pitifully different. People who ought not
to die did so, a