revelation. She was telling him things she had thought, she
was recalling her life.

Towards the last, she said in gesture: "You can forget the winter, but
not the spring. You like to remember the spring. It is the beginning.
When the daisy first peeps, when the tall young deer first stands upon
its feet, when the first egg is seen in the oriole's nest, when the sap
first sweats from the tree, when you first look into the eye of your
friend--these you want to remember...."

She paused upon this gesture--a light touch upon the forehead, then the
hands stretched out, palms upward, with coaxing fingers. She seemed
lost in it. Her eyes rippled, her lips pressed slightly, a delicate wine
crept through her cheek, and tenderness wimpled all. Her soft breast
rose modestly to the cool texture of her dress. Hilton felt his blood
bound joyfully; he had the wish of instant possession. But yet he could
not stir, she held him so; for a change immediately passed upon her. She
glided slowly from that almost statue-like repose into another gesture.
Her eyes drew up from his, and looked away to plumbless distance, all
glowing and childlike, and the new ciphers slowly said:

"But the spring dies away. We can only see a thing born once. And it may
be ours, yet not ours. I have sighted the perfect Sharon-flower, far up
on Guidon, yet it was not mine; it was too distant; I could not reach
it. I have seen the silver bullfinch floating along the canon. I called
to it, and it came singing; and it was mine, yet I could not hear its
song, and I let it go; it could not be happy so with me.... I stand at
the gate of a great city, and see all, and feel the great shuttles of
sounds, the roar and clack of wheels, the horses' hoofs striking the
ground, the hammer of bells; all: and yet it is not mine; it is far,
far away from me. It is one world, mine is another; and sometimes it is
lonely, and the best things are not for me. But I have seen them, and
it is pleasant to remember, and nothing can take from us the hour when
things were born, when we saw the spring--nothing--never!"

Her manner of speech, as this went on, became exquisite in fineness,
slower, and more dream-like, until, with downward protesting motions of
the hand, she said that "nothing--never!" Then a great sigh surged up
her throat, her lips parted slightly, showing the warm moist whiteness
of her teeth, her hands falling lightly, drew together and folded in
front of her. She stood