er shoulders and murmured, "Bella, little Bella," and
choked the other words back.

"No," she said, "I'm not little Bella any more. Please answer me, Cousin
Antony."

He could not have told her for his life. He could tell her nothing; her
charm, her lifted face, beautiful, ardent, were the most real, the most
vital things the world had ever held for him. The fascination found him
under his new grief. He exclaimed, turning brusquely toward his covered
scaffolding--

"Don't you want to see my work, Bella? I've been at it nearly a year."

He rapidly drew the curtain and exposed his bas-relief.

There was in the distance a vague indication of distant sky-line--a far
horizon--upon which, into which, a door opened, held ajar by a woman's
arm and hand. The woman's figure, draped in the clinging garment of the
grave, was passing through, but in going her face was turned, uplifted,
to look back at a man without, who, apparently unconscious of her, gazed
upon life and the world. That was all--the two figures and the feeling
of the vast illimitable far-away.

It seemed to Fairfax as he unveiled his work that he looked upon it
himself for the first time; it seemed to him finished, moreover,
complete. He knew that he could do nothing more with it. He heard Bella
ask, "Who is it, Cousin Antony? It is perfectly beautiful!" her old
enthusiasm soft and warm in her voice.

At her repeated question, "Who is it?" he replied, "A dream woman." And
his cousin said, "You have lovely dreams, but it is too sad."

He told her for what it was destined, and she listened, musing, and when
she turned her face to him again there were tears in her eyes. She
pointed to the panel.

"There should be a child there," she said, with trembling lips. "They go
in too, Cousin Antony."

"Yes," he responded, "they go in too."

He crossed the floor with her toward the door, neither of them speaking.
She drew on her gloves, but at the door he said--

"Stop a moment. I'm going a little way with you."

"No, Cousin Antony, you can't. Myra Scutfield, my best friend, is
waiting for me with her brother. I'm supposed to be visiting her for
Sunday. You mustn't come."

Her hand was on the door latch. He gently took her hand and pushed it
aside. He did not wish her to open that door or to go through it alone.
As they stood there silent, she lifted her face and said--

"I'm going away for the Easter holidays. Kiss me good-bye."

And he stooped and kissed he