tle weep, Love,
(Foolish me!)
And so fall asleep, Love,
Loved by thee."

Geoffrey heard them in his heart. Then they were gone, the vision of
Beatrice was gone, and suddenly he awoke.

Oh, what was this flood of inarticulate, passion-laden thought that beat
upon his brain telling of Beatrice? Wave after wave it came, utterly
overwhelming him, like the heavy breath of flowers stirred by a night
wind--like a message from another world. It was real; it was no dream,
no fancy; she was present with him though she was not there; her
thought mingled with his thought, her being beat upon his own. His heart
throbbed, his limbs trembled, he strove to understand and could not. But
in the mystery of that dread communion, the passion he had trodden down
and refused acknowledgment took life and form within him; it grew like
the Indian's magic tree, from seed to blade, from blade to bud, and from
bud to bloom. In that moment it became clear to him: he knew he loved
her, and knowing what such a love must mean, for him if not for her,
Geoffrey sank back and groaned.

And Beatrice? Of a sudden she ceased speaking to herself; she felt
her thought flung back to her weighted with another's thought. She had
broken through the barriers of earth; the quick electric message of her
heart had found a path to him she loved and come back answered. But in
what tongue was that answer writ? Alas! she could not read it, any more
than he could read the message. At first she doubted; surely it was
imagination. Then she remembered it was absolutely proved that people
dying could send a vision of themselves to others far away; and if that
could be, why not this? No, it was truth, a solemn truth; she knew he
felt her thought, she knew that his life beat upon her life. Oh, here
was mystery, and here was hope, for if this could be, and it _was_, what
might not be? If her blind strength of human love could so overstep the
boundaries of human power, and, by the sheer might of its volition,
mock the physical barriers that hemmed her in, what had she to fear from
distance, from separation, ay, from death itself? She had grasped a
clue which might one day, before the seeming end or after--what did it
matter?--lay strange secrets open to her gaze. She had heard a whisper
in an unknown tongue that could still be learned, answering Life's
agonizing cry with a song of glory. If only he loved her, some day all
would be well. Some day the barrie