r for very wonder; he
kissed her for very joy; but most of all he kissed her for fervent
love. Then once more life was an "Interlude in Heaven." Every hour
held some sweet surprise, some accidental joy. It was Brune, it was
Sarah, it was some eulogium of Ulfar in the great London weeklies. He
had fought in the good fight for freedom; he had done great deeds of
mercy as well as of valour; he had crossed primeval forests, and
brought back wonderful medicines, and dyes, and many new specimens for
the botanist and the naturalist. The papers were never weary in
praising his pluck, his bravery, his generosity, and his endurance;
the Geographical Society sent him its coveted blue ribbon. In his own
way Ulfar had made himself a fit mate for the new Aspatria.

And she was a constant wonder to him. Nothing in all his strange
experience touched his heart like the thought of his simple, patient
wife, studying to please him, to be worthy of his love. Every day
revealed her in some new and charming light. She was one hundred
Aspatrias in a single, lovable, lovely woman. On what ever subject
Ulfar spoke, she understood, supplemented, sympathized with, or
assisted him. She could talk in French and Italian; she was not
ignorant of botany and natural science, and she was delighted to be
his pupil.

In a single month they became all the world to each other; and then
they began to long for the lonely old castle fronting the wild North
Sea, to plan for its restoration, and for a sweet home-life, which
alone could satisfy the thirst of their hearts for each other's
presence. At the end of June they went northward.

It was the month of the rose, and the hedges were pink, and the garden
was a garden of roses. There were banks of roses, mazes of roses,
walks and standards of roses, masses of glorious colour, and breezes
scented with roses. Butterflies were chasing one another among the
flowers; nightingales, languid with love, were singing softly above
them. And in the midst was a gray old castle, flying its old border
flags, and looking as happy as if it were at a festival.

Aspatria was enraptured, spellbound with delight. With Ulfar she
wandered from one beauty to another, until they finally reached a
great standard of pale-pink roses. Their loveliness was beyond
compare; their scent went to the brain like some divine essence. It
was a glory,--a prayer,--a song of joy! Aspatria stood beside it, and
seemed to Ulfar but its mortal manifes