cometh not to its full kingdom--cometh
not, she said.

We had not spoken, Marget and I, to each other of love; we had not
called it by a name to each other; we had only felt and dreamt it.
Possibly, that is the natural course of a simple, true love, for it is
undemonstrative. It likes the half-lights of the dusk, to live in the
shadow of its silvery clouds, and to arrive round corners, if only that
it may have a safe way of escape, should it be frightened. Ever it
likes running away, and, better still, it likes being pursued!

All this goes with one dark little story of my love for Marget, and I
would only tell it under the compulsion of a full-breasted honesty,
because I judge it to be sacred to her as well as to me. It was when I
first felt as if something hitherto unknown to me had come into my life
at Corgarff. I had seen Marget once, with interest, because she was
good to look upon, the second time with pleasure, because she seemed to
see me, the third time with a sense of awkwardness, as if a mysterious
contact had arisen between us.

Words will not take me nearer to the uncanny, covetous feeling than
that, for they are bald, empty contrivances invented of this world and
not, like love itself, the fruit of the spirit world. But perhaps you
will understand, certainly if you have experienced yourself, and,
understanding so much, you will be able to follow what came next.

Marget had been going somewhere, taking a mere walk, perhaps, and I had
said, "May I not come," and she said, "No, there is really no need,"
and I did not go.

Unknowing youth! I saw my condemnation in her eye as she went her path
resolutely, turning neither to the right nor to the left, a maiden
determined to give me a lesson in this; that love, even when it is only
dawning, loves to be assailed. That was a chapter of the spiritual
story which lay within the outer story of our doings in Corgarff. You
may say that it was a trifle, a thing not worth recalling, and that
would be true for everybody except Marget and myself, who knew better
then and confessed it to each other afterwards, because it was a first
flicker of realization.

And, indeed, behind my marchings and counter-marchings around the grim
old Castle of Corgarff there lay a mystery of feeling nearer to me than
any call of arms could be. It was always present, the most potent
influence that can exercise a man, born of one woman and in love with
another. No doubt Marget an