to say that, when his heart
was lost already.

"Wait--wait till next spring comes."

He could put what meaning he liked into that graceful little
commonplace. But it dismissed at the same time that it reassured him.
The very ease and delicacy with which it was done left him no doubt on
that point.

He was not going to accept his dismissal then and there. A bold
thought leapt in his brain. Could he--might he--? She had read his
sonnet; would it do to ask her to read his drama also? To be sure the
sonnet had but fourteen lines, while the drama had twice as many
hundred. But the drama, the drama, his beautiful _Helen in Leuce_, was
his ultimate achievement, the highest, completest expression of his
soul. And what he required of Lucia Harden was not her praise, but
fuller, more perfect comprehension. He stood in a cruel and false
position, and he longed for her to know the finest and the best of
him, before she knew (as she must know) the worst.

She was turning away; but there was a closed gate between her and the
hill-path that led down into the valley.

"Miss Harden--"

"Yes?"

She turned. His heart beat violently. He was afraid to look up lest
his face should betray his emotion; it must seem so disproportioned to
its cause. And yet he was going to ask her for leave to put his drama,
the fine offspring of his soul, into her hands.

"May I send you the drama I spoke of? I would like you to see it."

"Nothing would give me greater pleasure."

He tried to stammer out some words of thanks; but they died before
utterance.

"You know your way now, don't you?" said she.

"Yes, thanks."

Her hand was on the gate; he opened it to let her pass. He also made a
movement as though he would have held out his hand, but thought better
of it, raising his hat instead.

He stood uncovered until she had passed.

He walked up and down the road, giving her time to get well out of
sight. Then he returned to the place where he had suffered, and stood
a long while looking over the valley.

He knew now the meaning of his great misery; and it was misery no
longer. The veil was lifted from the face of Nature; and it was a
face that he had never yet seen. It had lost that look of mysterious,
indefinable reproach. It was as if the beauty of the land, seeking
after the heart that should love it, was appeased and reconciled. He
could hear the lyric soul of things most clearly and unmistakably, and
it was singing a new song. A st