taken her hand and sat holding it: it was the one
thing that existed for him. All else was vague and unreal: only their
two hearts beat in all the universe. But there was no interchange
between them of binding words or endearments, such as pass between most
lovers.

How long they sat, neither could have told. But suddenly, far below, a
human voice was raised in a long cry, which echoed against the side of
the hill. Louise shivered: and he had a moment of apprehension.

"You're cold. We have sat too long. Let us go."

They rose, and walked slowly back to the house.

Although the doors were still open, the building was in darkness, and
they had to grope their way up the stairs. Outside her room, he paused
to light the candle that was standing on the table, but Louise opened
the door and went in. As she did so, she gave a cry. The blind had not
been lowered, and a patch of greenish-white moonlight lay on the floor
before the window, throwing the rest of the room into massy shadow. She
went forward and stood in it.

"Don't make a light," she said to him over her shoulder.

Maurice put down the matches, with which he had been fumbling, went
quickly in after her, and shut the door.

Before anyone else was astir, he had flung out into the freshness of
the morning. It was cool in the shade of the woods; grass and moss were
a little moist with dew. He did not linger under the trees; he needed
movement; and striding along the driving-road, which ran down the hill
where the incline was easiest, he went out on the plains, among the
little villages that dotted the level land like huge clumps of
mushrooms. He carried his cap in his hand, and let the early sun play
on his head.

When he returned, it was nine o'clock, and he was ravenously hungry.
Amalie carried the coffee and the crisp brown rolls to one of the small
tables on the terrace, and herself stood, after she had served him, and
looked over the edge of the hill. When he had finished eating, he
opened a volume of DICHTUNG UND WAHRHEIT, which he carried in his
pocket, and began to read. But after a few lines, his thoughts
wandered; the book had a chilling effect on him in his present mood;
the writing seemed stiff and strained--the work of a very old man.

At first, that morning, he had not ventured to review even in thought
the past hours. Now, however, that he was again within a stone's throw
of Louise, memories crowded upon him; he gazed, with a passion of
gratefu