octor Brinkerhoff's word for it, and he
might be mistaken. Even the Master might be labouring under a
delusion--might only think he cared.

The after-meetings are often pathetic, between those who have loved in
youth. Circumstance parts two who vow undying devotion, and one,
perhaps, remains faithful, while the other forgets. Sometimes, both
marry elsewhere, each with the other's image securely hidden in those
secret chambers of the heart, which twilight and music serve best to
open.

Time, that kindly magician, softens the harsh outlines, eliminates every
defect, and, by his wondrous alchemy, transmutes the real to the ideal.
Thus in one's inmost soul is enshrined the old love, with countless
other precious things.

Rue lies at the threshold, for Regret, like a sentinel, guards the door,
and to enter, one must first make peace with Regret. The labyrinthine
passages are hung with shining fabrics, woven of long-dead dreams. The
floor is deeply hidden with rosemary, that homely, fragrant herb which
means remembrance. The light is that of a stained-glass window, where
the sun streams through many colours, and illumines the utmost recesses
with a rainbow gleam.

Costly vessels are there, holding Heart's Desire, which must wait for
its fulfilment until immortal dawn. Heart's Belief is in a chest, laid
away with lavender, but the lock is rusty and does not readily yield.
Heart's Love, sweet with spikenard, waits near the door, so eager to
pass the threshold, where stands Regret!

Memory's jewels are there, in many a casket of cunning workmanship,
where the dust never lies. Emeralds made of the "green pastures and the
still waters"; sapphires that were born of sun and sea. Topazes of the
golden glow that comes after a rain; diamonds of the white light of
noon. Rubies that have stolen their colour from the warm blood of the
heart, gladly giving its deepest love. Amethysts made of dead violets,
still hinting that perishable fragrance which, perhaps, like a single
precious drop, still lives within, forever out of the reach of decay.
Opals made from changeful flame, of irised fancies that lived but for
the space of a thought, then passed away. Linked together by a thousand
perfect moments, these jewels of Memory wait for the quiet hour when
one's fingers lift them from their hiding-place, and one's eyes,
forgetting tears, shine with the old joy.

The petals of crimson roses, long since crushed and dead, rustle softly
from