brace; almost she turns to give herself into
his keeping for ever, when a sound, breaking the great stillness,
changes the face of all things.

Was it a twig snapping, or the rush of the brooklet beyond? or the clear
first notes of an awakening bird? She never knows. But all at once
remembrance returns to her, and knowledge and wisdom is with her again.

To live with a stained life, however dear; to feel his shame day by day;
to distrust a later action because of a former one; to draw miserable
and degrading conclusions from a sin gone by. _No!_

Her lips quiver. Her heart dies within her. She turns her eyes to the
fast reddening sky, and, with her gaze thus fixed on heaven, registers
an oath.

"As she may not marry him whom she loves, never will she be wife to
living man!"

And this is her comfort and her curse, that in her heart, until her
dying day will nestle her sullied love. Hidden away and wept over in
secret, and lamented bitterly at times, but dearer far, for all that,
than anything the earth can offer.

Gently--very gently--without looking at him, she draws her arm from his
touch and rises to her feet. He, too, rises, and stands before her
silently as one might who awaits his doom.

"To hear with eyes belongs to Love's rare wit." _He_ seems to know all
that is now passing in her soul, her weakness--her longing--her
love--her strength--her oath--her grief; it is all laid bare to him.

And she herself; she is standing before him, her rich satin gown
trailing on the green grass, her face pale, her eyes large and mournful.
Her soft white neck gleams like snow in the growing light; upon it the
strings of pearls rise and fall tumultuously. How strange--how white she
seems--like a vision from fairy, or dreamland. Shall he ever forget it?

Laying his hand upon her shoulders, he looks steadily into her eyes; and
then, after a long pause--

"There should be proof," he says, sadly.

And she says,

"Yes, there should be proof," in a tone from which all feeling, and
hope, and happiness have fled.

And yet the world grows brighter. The early morn springs forth and glads
the air.

"But, nor Orient morn,
Nor fragrant zephyr, nor Arabian climes,
Nor gilded ceilings can relieve the soul
Pining in thraldom."

A long pause follows her sentence, that to him has savored of death.
Then he speaks:

"Let me raise your gown," he says, with heart-broken gentleness,