; there were only two," he said, convinced and satisfied.

He led her along a dozen steps or so, and then halted.

"Turn this way," swinging her about; "do not open thy eyes till I tell
thee. There--now!"

For an instant the darkness seemed impenetrable; but there was enough of
a faint light, rather like pale belated moonbeams than the brightness of
the sun, to enable her to read her own name carved upon the smooth wall
of rock.

"Ah! little deceiver, when did you do this?" she asked, touched by his
gallantry.

"Do this! Why, Pepeeta, I did not do it," he answered, surprised and
taken back by her misunderstanding.

"You did not do it?" she asked, astonished in her turn. "Who did it if
you did not?"

"Why--can't thee guess?" he asked.

And then it slowly dawned upon her that it was the work of her lover,
done in those days when he wandered about the country restless and
tormented by his passion. His own dear hand had traced those letters on
the rock!

She kissed them, and burst into tears.

This was an indescribable shock to the child, who had anticipated a
result so different, and he sprang to her side, embraced her in his
young arms and cried:

"What is the matter, Pepeeta? I did not mean to make thee sad; I meant
to make thee happy! Oh, do not cry!"

"You have made me a thousand times glad, my dear boy," she said, kissing
him gratefully. "You could not in any other way in the world give me
such happiness as this. But did you not know that we can cry because we
are glad as well as because we are sad?"

"I have never heard of that," he answered wonderingly.

She did not reply, for her attention reverted to the letters on the wall
and she stood feeding her hungry eyes upon that indubitable proof of
the devotion of her lover.

The child's instinct taught him the sacredness of the privacy of grief
and love. He freed himself from her embrace, slipped out of the cave and
left her alone. She laid her cheek against the rude letters, patted them
with her hand, and kissed them again and again. It was bliss to know
that she had inspired this passion, although it was agony to know that
it was only a memory.

The remembrance of feasts once eaten is not only no solace to physical
hunger, but adds unmitigated torment to it. It is different with the
hunger of the heart, which finds a melancholy alleviation in feeding
upon those shadows which reality has left. The food is bitter-sweet and
the alleviation is not sa