Mr. Howard had been speaking very intensely, and when he stopped
Helen did not reply at once, but continued gazing at him. "What is
the use of such moments," she asked at last, "if they only make one
wretched?"

"At least one may keep the memory," he replied with a smile, "and
that gives him a standard of reality. He learns to be humble, and
learns how to judge men and men's glory, and the wonderful things of
men's world,--so that while they are the most self-occupied and
self-delighted creatures living he may see them as dumb cattle that
are grazing while the sunrise is firing the hilltops."

"You have had such moments yourself?" asked Helen.

"A long time ago," said the other, smiling at the seriousness with
which she spoke. "When you were telling me about your musical
fancies you made me remember how once when I was young I climbed a
high hill and had an adventure with a wind that was very swift and
eager. At first I recollect I tried not to heed it, because I had
been dull and idle and unhappy; but I found that I could not be very
long in the presence of so much life without being made ashamed, and
that brave windstorm put me through a course of repentance of the
very sternest kind before it let me go. I tried just to promise that
I would be more wide-awake and more true, but it paid not the least
attention to that; and it would hear no arguments as to the
consequences,--it came again and again with a furious burst, and
swept me away every time I tried to think; it declared that I had
been putting off the task of living my life long enough, and that I
was to attend to it then and there. And when I gave myself up as
demanded, it had not the least mercy upon me, and each time that I
protested that I was at the end of my power it simply whirled me
away again like a mad thing. When at last I came down from the
hillside I had quite a new idea of what living meant, and I have
been more respectful before the winds and other people of genius
ever since."

Helen felt very much at home in that merry phantasy of her
companion's, but she did not say anything; after a moment's waiting
the other went on to tell her of something else that pleased her no
less. "I remember," he said, "how as I came down I chanced upon a
very wonderful sight, one which made an impression upon me that I
have not forgotten. It was a thicket of wild roses; and I have
always dreamed that the wild rose was a creature of the wind and
fire, but I never knew so much about it before. After that day I
have come seriously to believe it would be best if we prudent and
timid creatures, who neither dare nor care anything for the sake of
beauty,--if we simply did not ever see the wild rose. For it lives
only for a day or two, Miss Davis, and yet, as I discovered then, we
may live all our years and never get one such burst of glory, one
such instant of exultation and faith as that. And also I seriously
think that among men and all the wonderful works of men there is
nothing so beautiful and so precious as that little flower that none
of them heeds."

Mr. Howard glanced at the girl suddenly; she had half stopped in her
walk, and she was gazing at him with a very eager look in her bright
eyes. "What is it?" he asked her, and Helen exclaimed, "Oh, I am so
glad you mentioned it! I had forgotten--actually forgotten!"

As her friend looked puzzled, the girl went on with her merriest
laugh, "I must tell you all about it, and we shall be happy once
more; for you turn down this path towards the woods, and then you
must go very quietly and hold your breath, and prepare yourself just
as if you were going into a great cathedral; for you want all your
heart to be full of expectation and joy! It is for only about one
week in the year that you may see this great sight, and the
excitement of the first rapture is best of all. It would be so
dreadful if you were not reverent; you must fancy that you are
coming to hear a wonderful musician, and you know that he'll play
for you, but you don't know just when. That's what I used to
pretend, and I used to come every day for a week or two, and very
early in the morning, when the dew was still everywhere and the
winds were still gay. Several times you go back home disappointed,
but that only makes you more eager for the next time; and when you
do find them it is wonderful--oh, most wonderful! For there is a
whole hedge of them along the edge of the wood; and you may be just
as madly happy as you choose and never be half happy enough, because
they are so beautiful!"

"These are wild roses?" asked the other, smiling.

"Yes," said Helen, "and oh, think how many days I have forgotten
them, and they may have bloomed! And for three years I have not been
here, and I was thinking about it all the way over on the steamer."
They had come to the path that turned off to the woods, and Helen
led her companion down it, still prattling away in the meantime;
when they came to the edge of the woods she began walking upon tip
toe, and put her fingers upon her lips in fun. Then suddenly she
gave a cry of delight, for there were the roses for a fact, a whole
hedge of them as she had said, glowing in the bright sun and making
a wonderful vision.

The two stopped and stood gazing at them, the girl's whole soul
dancing within her. "Oh do you know," she cried suddenly, "I think
that I could get drunk with just looking at roses! There is a
strange kind of excitement that comes over one, from drinking in the
sight of their rich red, and their gracefulness and perfume; it
makes all my blood begin to flow faster, and I quite forget
everything else." Helen stood for a few moments longer with her
countenance of joy; afterwards she went towards the flowers and
knelt down in front of them, choosing a bud that was very perfect.
"I always allow myself just one," she said, "just one for love," and
then she bent over it, whispering softly:

  "Hush,'tis the lullaby time is singing,
  Hush and heed not, for all things pass."

She plucked it and held it up before her, while the wind came up
behind her and tossed it about, and tossed her skirts; Helen,
radiant with laughter, glanced at her companion, saying gaily, "You
must hold it very lightly, just like this, you know, with one finger
and a thumb; and then you may toss it before you and lose yourself
in its perfectness, until it makes all your soul feel gracious. Do
you know, Mr. Howard, I think one could not live with the roses very
long without becoming beautiful?"

"That was what Plato thought," said the other with a smile, "and
many other wise people."

"I only wish that they might bloom forever," said the girl, "I
should try it."

Her companion had been lost in watching her, and now as she paused
he said: "Sometimes, I have been happy with the roses, too, Miss
Davis. Here is some music for your flower." She gazed at him
eagerly, and he recited, half laughingly:

  "Wild rose, wild rose, sing me thy song,
    Come, let us sing it together!--
  I hear the silver streamlet call
    From his home in the dewy heather."

  "Let us sing the wild dance with the mountain breeze,
    The rush of the mountain rain,
  And the passionate clasp of the glowing sun
    When the clouds are rent again."

  "They tell us the time for the song is short,
    That the wings of joy are fleet;
  But the soul of the rose has bid me sing
    That oh, while it lasts 'tis sweet!"

Afterwards Helen stood for a moment in silence; then a happy idea
came to her mind, and she turned towards the hedge of roses once
more and threw back her head upon the wind and took a deep breath
and began singing a very beautiful melody.

As it swelled out Helen's joy increased until her face was alight
with laughter, and very wonderful to see; she stood with the rose
tossing in one of her hands, and with the other pressed upon her
bosom,--"singing of summer in full-throated ease." One might have
been sure that the roses knew what she was saying, and that all
about her loved her for her song.

Yet the girl had just heard that the wings of joy are fleet; and she
was destined to find even then that it was true. For when she
stopped she turned to her companion with a happy smile and said, "Do
you know what that is that I was singing?" When he said "No," she
went on, "It is some wild-rose music that somebody made for me, I
think. It is in the same book as the 'Water Lily' that I played
you." And then in a flash the fearful memory of that evening came
over the girl, and made her start back; for a moment she stood
gazing at her friend, breathing very hard, and then she lowered her
eyes and whispered faintly to herself, "And it was not a month ago!"

There was a long silence after that, and when Helen looked up again
the joy was gone out of her face, and she was the same frightened
soul as before. Her lips were trembling a little as she said, "Mr.
Howard, I feel somehow that I have no right to be quite happy, for I
have done nothing to make myself good." Then, thinking of her
friend, she added, "I am spoiling your joy in the roses! Can you
forgive me for that?" As he answered that he could, Helen turned
away and said, "Let us go into the woods, because I do not like to
see them any more just now."

They passed beneath the deep shadows of the trees, and Helen led Mr.
Howard to the spring where she had been with Arthur. She sat down
upon the seat, and then there was a long silence, the girl gazing
steadfastly in front of her; she was thinking of the last time she
had been there, and how it was likely that the pale, wan look must
still be upon Arthur's face. Mr. Howard perhaps divined her thought,
for he watched her for a long time without speaking a word, and then
at last he said gently, as if to divert her attention, "Miss Davis,
I think that you are not the first one whom the sight of the wild
rose has made unhappy."

Helen turned and looked at him, and he gazed gravely into her eyes.
For at least a minute he said nothing; when he went on his voice was
much changed, and Helen knew not what to expect "Miss Davis," he
said, "God has given to the wild rose a very wonderful power of
beauty and joy; and perhaps the man who looks at it has been
dreaming all his life that somewhere he too might find such precious
things and have them for his own. When he sees the flower there
comes to him the fearful realization that with all the effort of his
soul he has never won the glory which the wild rose wears by
Heaven's free gift; and that perhaps in his loneliness and weakness
he has even forgotten all about such high perfection. So there rises
within him a yearning of all his being to forget his misery and his
struggling, and to lay all his worship and all his care before the
flower that is so sweet; he is afraid of his own sin and his own
baseness, and now suddenly he finds a way of escape,--that he will
live no longer for himself and his own happiness, but that his joy
shall be the rose's joy, and all his life the rose's life. Do you
think, my dear friend, that that might please the flower?"

"Yes," said Helen wonderingly, "it would be beautiful, if one could
do it."

The other spoke more gently still as he answered her, his voice
trembling slightly: "And do you not know, Miss Davis, that God has
made _you_ a rose?"

The girl started visibly; she whispered, "You say that to me, Mr.
Howard? Why do you say that to _me_?"

And he fixed his dark eyes upon her, his voice very low as he
responded: "I say it to you,--because I love you."

And Helen shrank back and stared at him; and then as she saw his
look her own dropped lower and lower and the color mounted to her
face. Mr. Howard paused for a moment or two and then very gently
took one of her hands in his, and went on:

"Helen," he said,--"you must let me call you Helen--listen to me a
while, for I have something to tell you. And since we both of us
love the roses so much, perhaps it will be beautiful to speak of
them still. I want to tell you how the man who loves the flower
needs not to love it for his own sake, but may love it for the
flower's; how one who really worships beauty, worships that which is
not himself, and the more he worships it the less he thinks of
himself. And Helen, you can never know how hard a struggle my life
has been, just to keep before me something to love,--how lonely a
struggle it has been, and how sad. I can only tell you that there
was very little strength left, and very little beauty, and that it
was all I could do to remember there was such a thing as joy in the
world, and that I had once possessed it. The music that moved me and
the music that I made was never your wild-rose singing, but such
yearning, restless music as you heard in the garden. I cannot tell
you how much I have loved that little piece that I played then;
perhaps it is my own sad heart that finds such breathing passion in
it, but I have sent it out into the darkness of many a night,
dreaming that somewhere it might waken an echo. For as long as the
heart beats it never ceases to hunger and to hope, and I felt that
somewhere in the world there must be left some living creature that
was beautiful and pure, and that might be loved. So it was that when
I saw you all my soul was roused within me; you were the fairest of
all God's creatures that I had ever seen. That was why I was so
bitter at first, and that was why all my heart went out to you when
I saw your suffering, and why it is to me the dearest memory of my
lifetime that I was able to help you. Afterwards when I saw how true
you were, I was happier than I had ever dared hope to be again; for
when I went back to my lonely little home, it was no longer to think
about myself and my sorrow and my dullness, but to think about
you,--to rejoice in your salvation, and to pray for you in your
trouble, and to wait for the day when I might see you again. And so
I knew that something had happened to me for which I had yearned, oh
so long and so painfully!--that my heart had been taken from me,
and that I was living in another life; I knew, dear Helen, that I
loved you. I said to myself long ago, before you got Arthur's
letter, that I would wait for the chance to say this to you, to take
your hand in mine and say: Sweet girl, the law of my life has been
that all my soul I must give to the best thing that ever I know; and
that thing is you. You must know that I love you, and how I love
you; that I lay myself at your feet and ask to help you and watch
over you and strengthen you all that I may. For your life is young
and there is much to be hoped for in it, and to my own poor self
there is no longer any duty that I owe. My heart is yours, and I ask
for nothing but that I may love you. Those were the words that I
first meant to say to you, Helen; and to ask you if it pleased you
that I should speak to you thus."

Mr. Howard stopped, and after he had waited a minute, the girl
raised her eyes to his face. She did not answer him, but she put out
her other hand and laid it very gently in his own.

There was a long silence before the man continued; at last he said,
"Dear Helen, that was what I wished to say to you, and no more than
that, because I believed that I was old, and that my heart was dying
within me. But oh, when that letter came from Arthur, it was as if I
heard the voice of my soul crying out to me that my life had just
begun, that I had still to love. As I came out here into the forest
with you to-day, my soul was full of a wondrous thought, a thought
that brought more awe and rapture than words have power to tell; it
was that this precious maiden was not made to be happy alone, but
that some day she and all her being would go out to someone, to
someone who could win her heart, who could love her and worship her
as she deserved. And my soul cried out to me that _I_ could worship
you; the thought wakened in me a wilder music than ever I had heard
in my life before. Here as I kneel before you and hold your hands in
mine, dear Helen, all my being cries out to you to come to me; for
in your sorrow your heart has been laid bare to my sight, and I have
seen only sweetness and truth. To keep it, and serve it, and feed it
upon thoughts of beauty, would be all that I could care for in life;
and the thought of winning you for mine, so that all your life I
might cherish you, is to me a joy which brings tears into my eyes.
Oh, dearest girl, I must live before you with that prayer, and tell
me what you will, I must still pray it. Nor do I care how long you
ask me to wait; my life has now but one desire, to love you in such
a way as best may please you, to love you as much as you will let
me. Helen, I have told all myself to you, and here as we gaze into
each other's eyes our souls are bare to each other. As I say those
words they bring to me a thought that sweeps away all my
being,--that perhaps the great sorrow you have known has chastened
your heart so that you too wish to forget yourself, and worship at
the shrine of love; I see you trembling, and I think that perhaps it
may be that, and that it needs only a word of mine to bring your
soul to me! What that thought is I cannot tell you; but oh, it has
been the dream of my life, it has been the thing for which I have
lived, and for which I was dying. If I could win you for mine,
Helen, for mine--and take you away with me, away from all else but
love! The thought of it chokes me, and fills me with mighty anguish
of yearning; and my soul burns for you, and I stretch out my arms to
you; and I cry out to you that the happiness of my life is in your
hands--that I love you--oh, that I love you!"

As the man had been speaking he had sunk down before Helen, still
clasping her hands in his own. A great trembling had seized upon the
girl and her bosom was rising and falling swiftly; but she mastered
herself with a desperate effort and looked up, staring at him. "You
tell me that you love me," she gasped, "you tell me that I am
perfect! And yet you know what I have done--you have seen all my
wrongness!"

Her voice broke, and she could not speak a word more; she bowed her
head and the trembling came again, while the other clasped her hands
more tightly and bent towards her. "Helen," he said, "I call you to
a sacred life that forgets all things but love. Precious girl, my
soul cries out to me that I have a right to you, that you were made
that I might kneel before you; it cries out to me, 'Speak the word
and claim her, claim her for your own, for no man could love her
more than you love her. Tell her that all your life you have waited
for this sacred hour to come; tell her that you have power and life,
and that all your soul is hers!' And oh, dear heart, if only you
could tell me that you might love me, that years of waiting might
win you, it would be such happiness as I have never dared to dream.
Tell me, Helen, tell me if it be true!"

And the girl lifted her face to him, and he saw that all her soul
had leaped into her eyes. Her bosom heaved, and she flung back her
head and stretched wide her arms, and cried aloud, "Oh, David, I do
love you!"

He clasped her in his arms and pressed her upon his bosom in an
ecstasy of joy, and kissed the lips that had spoken the wonderful
words. "Tell me," he exclaimed, "you will be mine?" And she answered
him, "Yours!"

For that there was no answer but the clasp of his love. At last he
whispered, "Oh, Helen, a lifetime of worship can never repay you for
words like those. My life, my soul, tell me once more, for you
cannot be mine too utterly; tell me once more that you are mine!"

And suddenly she leaned back her head and looked into his burning
eyes, and began swiftly, her voice choking: "Oh, listen, listen to
me!--if it be a pleasure to you to know how you have this heart. I
tell you, wonderful man that God has given me for mine, that I loved
you the first word that I heard you speak in the garden. You were
all that I knew of in life to yearn for--you were a wonderful light
that had flashed upon me and blinded me; and when I saw my own
vileness in it I flung myself down on my face, and felt a more
fearful despair than I had ever dreamed could torture a soul. I
would have crawled to you upon my knees and groveled in the dirt and
begged you to have mercy upon me; and afterwards when you lifted me
up, I could have kissed the ground that you trod. But oh, I knew one
thing, and it was all that gave me courage ever to look upon you; I
heard the sacred voice of my womanhood within me, telling me that I
was not utterly vile, because it was in my ignorance that I had done
my sin; and that if ever I had known what love really was, I should
have laughed at the wealth of empires. To win your heart I would
fling away all that I ever cared for in life--my beauty, my health,
my happiness--yes, I would fling away my soul! And when you talked
to me of love and told me that its sacrifice was hard, I--I, little
girl that I am--could have told you that you were talking as a
child; and I thought, 'Oh, if only this man, instead of urging me to
love another and win my peace, if only _he_ were not afraid to trust
me, if only he were willing that I should love _him!_' And this
afternoon when I set out with you, do you know what was the real
thing that lay at the bottom of my heart and made me so happy? I
said to myself, 'It may take months, and it may take years, but
there is a crown in life that I may win--that I may win forever!
And this man shall tell me my duty, and night and day I shall watch
and pray to do it, and do more; and he will not know why I do it,
but it shall be for nothing but the love of him; and some day the
worship that is in his heart shall come to me, tho it find me upon
my death-bed.' And now you take me and tell me that I have only to
love you; and you frighten me, and I cannot believe that it is true!
But oh, you are pilot and master, and you know, and I will believe
you--only tell me this wonderful thing again that I may be
sure--that in spite of all my weakness and my helplessness and my
failures, you love me--and you trust me--and you ask for me. If
that is really the truth, David,--tell me if that is really the
truth!"

David whispered to her, "Yes, yes; that is the truth;" and the girl
went on swiftly, half sobbing with her emotion:

"If you tell me that, what more do I need to know? You are my life
and my soul, and you call me. For the glory of your wonderful love I
will leave all the rest of the world behind me, and you may take me
where you will and when you will, and do with me what you please.
And oh, you who frightened me so about my wrongness and told me how
hard it was to be right--do you know how easy it is for me to say
those words? And do you know how happy I am--because I love you and
you are mine? David--my David--my heart has been so full,--so wild
and thirsty,--that now when you tell me that you want all my love,
it is a word of glory to me, it tells me to be happy as never in my
life have I been happy before!"

And David bent towards her and kissed her upon her beautiful lips
and upon her forehead; and he pressed the trembling form closer upon
him, so that the heaving of her bosom answered to his own. "Listen,
my love, my precious heart," he whispered, "I will tell you about
the vision of my life, now when you and I are thus heart to heart.
Helen, my soul cries out that this union must be perfect, in mind
and soul and body a blending of all ourselves; so that we may live
in each other's hearts, and seek each other's perfection; so that we
may have nothing one from the other, but be one and the same soul in
the glory of our love. That is such a sacred thought, my life, my
darling; it makes all my being a song! And as I clasp you to me
thus, and kiss you, I feel that I have never been so near to God. I
have worshiped all my days in the great religion of love, and now as
the glory of it burns in my heart I feel lifted above even us, and
see that it is because of Him that we love each other so; because He
is one, our souls may be one, actually and really one, so that each
loses himself and lives the other's life. I know that I love you so
that I can fling my whole self away, and give up every thought in
life but you. As I tell you that, my heart is bursting; oh! drink in
this passion of mine, and tell me once more that you love me!"

Helen had still been leaning back her head and gazing into his eyes,
all her soul uplifted in the glory of her emotion; there was a wild
look upon her face,--and her breath was coming swiftly. For a moment
more she gazed at him, and then she buried her face on his shoulder,
crying, "Mine--mine!" For a long time she clung to him, breathing
the word and quite lost in the joy of it; until at last she leaned
back her head and gazed up into his eyes once more.

"Oh, David," she said, "what can I answer you? I can only tell you
one thing, that here I am in your arms, and that I am yours--yours!
And I love you, oh, before God I love you with all my soul! And I am
so happy--oh, David, so happy! Dearest heart, can you not see how
you have won me, so that I cannot live without you, so that anything
you ask of me you may have? I cannot tell you any more, because I am
trembling so, and I am so weak; for this has been more than I can
bear, it is as if all my being were melting within me. But oh, I
never thought that a human being could be so happy, or that to love
could be such a world of wonder and joy."

Helen, as she had been speaking, had sunk down exhaustedly, letting
her head fall forward upon her bosom; she lay quite limp in David's
arms, while little by little the agitation that had so shaken her
subsided. In the meantime he was bending over the golden hair that
was so wild and so beautiful, and there were tears in his eyes. When
at last the girl was quiet she leaned back her head upon his arm and
looked up into his face, and he bent over her and pressed a kiss
upon her mouth. Helen gazed into his eyes and asked him:

"David, do you really know what you have done to this little maiden,
how fearfully and how madly you have made her yours? I never dreamed
of what it could mean to love before; when men talked to me of it I
laughed at them, and the touch of their hands made me shrink. And
now here I am, and everything about me is changed. Take me away with
you, David, and keep me--I do not care what becomes of me, if only
you let me have your heart."

The girl closed her eyes and lay still again for a long time; when
she began to speak once more it was softly, and very slowly, and
half as if in a dream: "David," she whispered, "_my_ David, I am
tired; I think I never felt so helpless. But oh, dear heart, it
seems a kind of music in my soul,--that I have cast all my sorrow
away, and that I may be happy again, and be at peace--at peace!" And
the girl repeated the words to herself more and more gently, until
her voice had died away altogether; the other was silent for a long
time, gazing down upon the perfect face, and then at last he kissed
the trembling eyelids till they opened once again.

"Sweet girl," he whispered, "as God gives me life you shall never be
sorry for that beautiful faith, or sorry that you have laid bare
your heart to me." Long afterwards, having watched her without
speaking, he went on with a smile, "I wonder if you would not be
happier yet, dearest, if I should tell you all the beautiful things
that I mean to do with you. For now that you are all mine, I am
going to carry you far away; you will like that, will you not,
precious one?"

He saw a little of an old light come back into Helen's eyes as he
asked that question. "What difference does it make?" she asked,
gently.

David laughed and went on: "Very well then, you shall have nothing
to do with it. I shall take you in my arms just as you are. And I
have a beautiful little house, a very little house among the wildest
of mountains, and there we shall live this wonderful summer, all
alone with our wonderful love. And there we shall have nature to
worship, and beautiful music, and beautiful books to read. You shall
never have anything more to think about all your life but making
yourself perfect and beautiful."

The girl had raised herself up and was gazing at him with interest
as he spoke thus. But he saw a swift frown cross her features at his
last words, and he stopped and asked her what was the matter.
Helen's reply was delivered very gravely. "What I was to think
about," she said, "was settled long ago, and I wish you would not
say wicked things like that to me."

A moment later she laughed at herself a little; but then, pushing
back her tangled hair from her forehead, she went on seriously:
"David, what you tell me of is all that I ever thought of enjoying
in life; and yet I am so glad that you did not say anything about it
before! For I want to love you because of _you_, and I want you to
know that I would follow you and worship you and live in your love
if there were nothing else in life for you to offer me. And, David,
do you not see that you are never going to make this poor, restless
creature happy until you have given her something stern to do,
something that she may know she is doing just for your love and for
nothing else, bearing some effort and pain to make you happy?"

The girl had put her hands upon his shoulders, and was gazing
earnestly into his eyes; he looked at her for a moment, and then
responded in a low voice: "Helen, dearest, let us not play with
fearful words, and let us not tempt sorrow. My life has not been all
happiness, and you will have pain enough to share with me, I fear,
poor little girl." She thought in a flash of his sickness, and she
turned quite pale as she looked at him; but then she bent forward
gently and folded her arms about him, and for a minute more there
was silence.

There were tears standing in David's eyes when she looked at him
again. But he smiled in spite of them and kissed her once more, and
said: "Sweetheart, it is not wrong that we should be happy while we
can; and come what may, you know, we need not ever cease to love.
When I hear such noble words from you I think I have a medicine to
make all sickness light; so be bright and beautiful once more for my
sake."

Helen smiled and answered that she would, and then her eye chanced
to light upon the ground, where she saw the wild rose lying
forgotten; she stooped down and picked it up, and then knelt on the
grass beside David and pressed it against his bosom while she gazed
up into his face. "Once," she said, smiling tenderly, "I read a
pretty little stanza, and if you will love me more for it, I will
tell it to you.

  "'The sweetest flower that blows
    I give you as we part,
  To you, it is a rose,
    To me, it is a heart.'"

And the man took the flower, and took the hands too, and kissed
them; then a memory chanced to come to him, and he glanced about him
on the moss-covered forest floor. He saw some little clover-like
leaves that all forest-lovers love, and he stooped and picked one of
the gleaming white blossoms and laid it in Helen's hands. "Dearest,"
he said, "it is beautiful to make love with the flowers; I chanced
to think how I once _wrote_ a pretty little poem, and if you will
love me more for it, I will tell it to _you_." Then while the girl
gazed at him happily, he went on to add, "This was long before I
knew you, dear, and when I worshiped the flowers. One of them was
this little wood sorrel.

  I found it in the forest dark,
    A blossom of the snow;
  I read upon its face so fair,
    No heed of human woe.

  Yet when I sang my passion song
    And when the sun rose higher,
  The flower flung wide its heart to me,
    And lo! its heart was fire."

Helen gazed at him a moment after he finished, and then she took the
little flower and laid it gently back in the group from which he had
plucked it; afterwards she looked up and laughed. "I want that poem
for myself," she said, and drew closer to him, and put her arms
about him; he gazed into her upraised face, and there was a look of
wonder in his eyes.

"Oh, precious girl," he said, "I wonder if you know what a vision of
beauty God has made you! I wonder if you know how fair your eyes
are, if you know what glory a man may read in your face! Helen, when
I look upon you I know that God has meant to pay me for all my years
of pain; and it is all that I can do to think that you are really,
really mine. Do you not know that to gaze upon you will make me a
mad, mad creature for years and years and years?"

Helen answered him gravely: "With all my beauty, David, I am really,
really yours; and I love you so that I do not care anything in the
world about being beautiful, except because it makes you happy; to
do that I shall be always just as perfect as I may, thro all those
mad years and years and years!" Then, as she glanced about her, she
added: "We must go pretty soon, because it is late; but oh, before
we do, sweetheart, will you kiss me once more for all those years
and years and years?"

And David bent over and clasped her in his arms again,

  Sie ist mir ewig, ist mir
  immer, Erb und Eigen, ein und all!

END OF PART I

PART II

  "When summer gathers up her robes of glory,
  And like a dream of beauty glides away."






CHAPTER I





  "Across the hills and far away,
    Beyond their utmost purple rim,
  And deep into the dying day
    The happy princess follow'd him."

It was several months after Helen's marriage. The scene was a little
lake, in one of the wildest parts of the Adirondacks, surrounded by
tall mountains which converted it into a basin in the land, and
walled in by a dense growth about the shores, which added still more
to its appearance of seclusion. In only one place was the scenery
more open, where there was a little vale between two of the hills,
and where a mountain torrent came rushing down the steep incline.
There the underbrush had been cleared away, and beneath the great
forest trees a house constructed, a little cabin built of logs, and
in harmony with the rest of the scene.

It was only large enough for two or three rooms downstairs, and as
many above, and all were furnished in the plainest way. About the
main room there were shelves of books, and a piano and a well-chosen
music-library. It was the little home which for a dozen years or
more David Howard had occupied alone, and where he and Helen had
spent the golden summer of their love.

It was late in the fall then, and the mountains were robed in
scarlet and orange. Helen was standing upon the little piazza, a
shawl flung about her shoulders, because it was yet early in the
morning. She was talking to her father, who had been paying them a
few days' visit, and was taking a last look about him at the fresh
morning scene before it was time for him to begin his long homeward
journey.

Helen was clad in a simple dress, and with the prettiest of white
sun bonnets tied upon her head; she was browned by the sun, and
looked a picture of health and happiness as she held her father's
arm in hers. "And then you are quite sure that you are happy?" he
was saying, as he looked at her radiant face.

She echoed the word--"Happy?" and then she stretched out her arms
and took a deep breath and echoed it again. "I am so happy," she
laughed, "I never know what to do! You did not stay long enough for
me to tell you, Daddy!" She paused for a moment, and then went on,
"I think there never was anybody in the world so full of joy. For
this is such a beautiful little home, you know, and we live such a
beautiful life; and oh, we love each other so that the days seem to
fly by like the wind! I never even have time to think how happy I
am."

"Your husband really loves you as much as he ought," said the
father, gazing at her tenderly.

"I think God never put on earth another such man as David," replied,
the girl, with sudden gravity. "He is so noble, and so unselfish in
every little thing; I see it in his eyes every instant that all his
life is lived for nothing but to win my love. And it just draws the
heart right out of me, Daddy, so that I could live on my knees
before him, just trying to tell him how much I love him. I cannot
ever love him enough; but it grows--it grows like great music, and
every day my heart is more full!"

Helen was standing with her head thrown back, gazing ahead of her;
then she turned and laughed, and put her arm about her father again,
saying: "Haven't you just seen what a beautiful life we live? And
oh, Daddy, most of the time I am afraid because I married David,
when I see how much he knows. Just think of it,--he has lived all
alone ever since he was young, and done nothing but read and study.
Now he brings all those treasures to me, to make me happy with, and
he frightens me." She stopped for a moment and then continued
earnestly: "I have to be able to go with him everywhere, you know, I
can't expect him to stay back all his life for me; and that makes me
work very hard. David says that there is one duty in the world
higher than love, and that is the duty of labor,--that no soul in
the world can be right for one instant if it is standing still and
is satisfied, even with the soul it loves. He told me that before he
married me, but at first when we came up here he was so impatient
that he quite frightened me; but now I have learned to understand it
all, and we are wonderfully one in everything. Daddy, dear, isn't it
a beautiful way to live, to be always striving, and having something
high and sacred in one's mind? And to make all of one's life from
one's own heart, and not to be dependent upon anything else? David
and I live away off here in the mountains, and we never have
anything of what other people call comforts and enjoyments--we have
nothing but a few books and a little music, and Nature, and our own
love; and we are so wonderfully happy with just those that nothing
else in the world could make any difference, certainly nothing that
money could buy us."

"I was worried when you wrote me that you did not even have a
servant," said Mr. Davis.

"It isn't any trouble," laughed Helen. (David's man lived in the
village half a mile away and came over every day to bring what was
necessary.) "This is such a tiny little cottage, and David and I are
very enthusiastic people, and we want to be able to make lots of
noise and do just as we please. We have so much music, you know,
Daddy, and of course David is quite a wild man when he gets excited
with music."

Helen stopped and looked at her father and laughed; then she rattled
merrily on: "We are both of us just two children, for David is so
much in love with me that it makes him as young as I am; and we are
away off from everything, and so we can be as happy with each other
as we choose. We have this little lake all to ourselves, you know;
it's getting cold now, and pretty soon we'll have to fly away to the
south, but all this summer long we used to get up in the morning in
time to see the sun rise, and to have a wonderful swim. And then we
have so many things to read and study; and David talks to me, and
tells me all that he knows; and besides all that we have to tell
each other how much we love each other, which takes a fearful amount
of time. It seems that neither of us can ever quite realize the
glory of it, and when we think of it, it is a wonder that nobody
ever told. Is not that a beautiful way to live, Daddy dear, and to
love?"

"Yes," said Mr. Davis, "that is a very beautiful way indeed. And I
think that my little girl has all that I could wish her to have."

"Oh, there is no need to tell me that!" laughed Helen. "All I wish
is that I might really be like David and be worth his love; I never
think about anything else all day." The girl stood for a moment
gazing at her father, and then, looking more serious, she put her
arm about him and whispered softly: "And oh, Daddy, it is too
wonderful to talk about, but I ought to tell you; for some day by
and by God is going to send us a new, oh, a new, new wonder!" And
Helen blushed beautifully as her father gazed into her eyes.

He took her hand tenderly in his own, and the two stood for some
time in silence. When it was broken it was by the rattling of the
wagon which had come to take Mr. Davis away.

David came out then to bid his guest good-by, and the three stood
for a few minutes conversing. It was not very difficult for, Helen
to take leave of her father, for she would see him, so she said, in
a week or two more. She stood waving her hands to him, until the
bumping wagon was lost to sight in the woods, and then she turned
and took David's hand in hers and gazed across the water at the
gorgeous-colored mountains. The lake was sparkling in the sunlight,
and the sky was bright and clear, but Helen's thoughts took a
different turn from that.

All summer long she had been rejoicing in the glory of the landscape
about her, in the glowing fern and the wild-flowers underfoot, and
in the boundless canopy of green above, with its unresting
song-birds; now there were only the shrill cries of a pair of
blue-jays to be heard, and every puff of wind that came brought down
a shower of rustling leaves to the already thickly-covered ground.

"Is it not sad, David," the girl said, "to think how the beauty
should all be going?"

David did not answer her for a moment. "When I think of it," he said
at last, "it brings me not so much sadness as a strange feeling of
mystery. Only stop, and think of what that vanished springtime
meant--think that it was a presence of living, feeling, growing
creatures,--infinite, unthinkable masses of them, robing all the
world; and that now the life and the glory of it all is suddenly
gone back into nothingness, that it was all but a fleeting vision, a
phantom presence on the earth. I never realize that without coming
to think of all the other things of life, and that they too are no
more real than the springtime flowers; and so it makes me feel as if
I were walking upon air, and living in a dream."

Helen was leaning against a post of the piazza, her eyes fixed upon
David intently. "Does that not give a new meaning to the vanished
spring-time?" he asked her; and she replied in a wondering whisper,
"Yes," and then gazed at him for a long time.

"David," she said at last, "it is fearful to think of a thing like
that. What does it all mean? What causes it?"

"Men have been asking that helpless question since the dawn of
time," he answered, "we only know what we see, this whirling and
weaving of shadows, with its sacred facts of beauty and love."

Helen looked at him thoughtfully a moment, and then, recollecting
something she had heard from her father, she said, "But, David, if
God be a mystery like that, how can there be any religion?"

"What we may fancy God to be makes no difference," he answered.
"That which we know is always the same, we have always the love and
always the beauty. All men's religion is but the assertion that the
source of these sacred things must be infinitely sacred, and that
whatever may happen to us, that source can suffer no harm; that we
live by a power stronger than ourselves, and that has no need of
us."

Helen was looking at her husband anxiously; then suddenly she asked
him, "But tell me then, David; you do not believe in heaven? You do
not believe that our souls are immortal?" As he answered her in the
negative she gave a slight start, and knitted her brows; and after
another pause she demanded, "You do not believe in revealed religion
then?"

David could not help smiling, recognizing the voice of his clerical
father-in-law; when he answered, however, he was serious again.
"Some day, perhaps, dear Helen," he said, "I will tell you all about
what I think as to such things. But very few of the world's real
thinkers believe in revealed religions any more--they have come to
see them simply as guesses of humanity at God's great sacred
mystery, and to believe that God's way of revealing Himself to men
is through the forms of life itself. As to the question of
immortality that you speak of, I have always felt that death is a
sign of the fact that God is infinite and perfect, and that we are
but shadows in his sight; that we live by a power that is not our
own, and seek for beauty that is not our own, and that each instant
of our lives is a free gift which we can only repay by thankfulness
and worship."

He paused for a moment, and the girl, who had still been gazing at
him thoughtfully, went on, "Father used to talk about those things
to me, David, and he showed me how the life of men is all spent in
suffering and struggling, and that therefore faith teaches us---"

"Yes, dearest," the other put in, "I know all that you are going to
say; I have read these arguments very often, you know. But suppose
that I were to tell you that I think suffering and struggling is the
very essence of the soul, and that what faith teaches us is that the
suffering and struggling are sacred, and not in the least that they
are some day to be made as nothing? Dearest, if it is true that the
soul makes this life what it is, a life of restless seeking for an
infinite, would it not make the same life anywhere else? Do you
remember reading with me Emerson's poem about Uriel, the seraph who
sang before God's throne,--how even that could not please him, and
how he left it to plunge into the struggle of things imperfect; and
how ever after the rest of the seraphim were afraid of Uriel? Do you
think, dearest, that this life of love and labor that you and I live
our own selves needs anything else to justify it? The life that I
lived all alone was much harder and more full of pain than this, but
I never thought that it needed any rewarding."

David stopped and stood gazing ahead of him thoughtfully; when he
continued his voice was lower and more solemn. "These things are
almost too sacred to talk of, Helen," he said; "but there is one
doubt that I have known about this, one thing that has made me
wonder if there ought not to be another world after all. I never
sympathized with any man's longing for heaven, but I can understand
how a man might be haunted by some fearful baseness of his own
self,--something which long years of effort had taught him he could
not ever expiate by the strength of his own heart,--and how he could
pray that there might be some place where rightness might be won at
last, cost what it would."

The man's tone had been so strange as he spoke that it caused Helen
to start; suddenly she came closer to him and put her hands upon his
shoulders and gazed into his eyes. "David," she whispered, "listen
to me a moment."

"Yes, dear," he said, "what is it?"

"Was it because of yourself that you said those words?"

He was silent for a moment, gazing into her anxious eyes; then he
bowed his head and said in a faint voice, "Yes, dear, it was because
of myself."

And the girl, becoming suddenly very serious, went on, "Do you
remember, David, a long time ago--the time that I was leaving Aunt
Polly's--that you told me how you knew what it was to have
something very terrible on one's conscience? I have not ever said
anything about that, but I have never forgotten it. Was it that that
you thought of then?"

"Yes, dear, it was that," answered the other, trembling slightly.

Helen stooped down upon her knees and put her arms about him, gazing
up pleadingly into his face. "Dearest David," she whispered, "is it
right to refuse to tell me about that sorrow?"

There was a long silence, after which the man replied slowly, "I
have not ever refused to tell you, sweetheart; it would be very
fearful to tell, but I have not any secrets from you; and if you
wished it, you should know. But, dear, it was long, long ago, and
nothing can ever change it now. It would only make us sad to know
it, so why should we talk of it?"

He stopped, and Helen gazed long and earnestly into his face.
"David," she said, "it is not possible for me to imagine you ever
doing anything wrong, you are so good."

"Perhaps," said David, "it is because you are so good yourself." But
Helen interrupted him at that with a quick rejoinder: "Do you forget
that I too have a sorrow upon my conscience?" Afterwards, as she saw
that the eager remark caused the other to smile in spite of himself,
she checked him gravely with the words, "Have you really forgotten
so soon? Do you suppose I do not ever think now of how I treated
poor Arthur, and how I drove away from me the best friend of my
girlhood? He wrote me that he would think of me no more, but, David,
sometimes I wonder if it were not just an angry boast, and if he
might not yet be lonely and wretched, somewhere in this great cold
world where I cannot ever find him or help him."

The girl paused; David was regarding her earnestly, and for a long
time neither of them spoke. Then suddenly the man bent down, and
pressed a kiss upon her forehead. "Let us only love each other,
dear," he whispered, "and try to keep as right as we can while the
time is given us."

There was a long silence after that while the two sat gazing out
across the blue lake; when Helen spoke again it was to say, "Some
day you must tell me all about it, David, because I can help you;
but let us not talk about these dreadful things now." She stopped
again, and afterwards went on thoughtfully, "I was thinking still of
what you said about immortality, and how very strange it is to think
of ceasing to be. Might it not be, David, that heaven is a place not
of reward, but of the same ceaseless effort as you spoke of?"

"Ah, yes," said the other, "that is the thought of 'the wages of
going on.' And of course, dear, we would all like those wages; there
is no thought that tempts me so much as the possibility of being
able to continue the great race forever; but I don't see how we have
the least right to demand it, or that the facts give us the least
reason to suppose that we will get it. It seems to me simply a
fantastic and arbitrary fancy; the re-creating of a worn-out life in
that way. I do not think, dearest, that I am in the least justified
in claiming an eternity of vision because God gives me an hour; and
when I ask Him the question in my own heart I learn simply that I am
a wretched, sodden creature that I do not crowd that hour with all
infinity and go quite mad at the sight of the beauty that He flings
wide before me."