treasure, only a patchwork memory, and that's a great grief."

"Well, then, forget! Why try in vain?" I said.

She smiled and seated herself, leaning a little forward, looking upon
the ground.

"Soothfastness _must_,"' she said very gravely, raising her long black
eyebrows; "yet truly it must be a forlorn thing to be remembered by
one who so lightly forgets. So then I say, to teach myself to be
true--'Look now, Criseyde, yonder fine, many-hearted poplar--that is
Paris; and all that bank of marriage-ivy--that is marriageable Helen,
green and cold; and the waterless fountain--that truly is Diomed; and
the faded flower that nods in shadow, why, that must be me, even me,
Criseyde!'"

"And this thick rosemary-bush that smells of exile, who, then, is
that?" I said.

She looked deep into the shadow of the cypresses. "That," she said, "I
think I have forgot again."

"But," I said, "Diomed, now, was he quite so silent--not one trickle
of persuasion?"

"Why," she said, "I think 'twas the fountain was Diomed: I know not.
And as for persuasion; he was a man forked, vain, and absolute as all.
Let the waterless stone be sudden Diomed--you will confuse my wits,
Mariner; where, then, were I?" She smiled, stooping lower. "You have
voyaged far?" she said.

"From childhood to this side regret," I answered rather sadly.

"'Tis a sad end to a sweet tale," she said, "were it but truly told.
But yet, and yet, and yet--you may return, and life heals every, every
wound. _I_ must look on the ground and make amends. 'Tis this same
making amends men now call 'Purgatory,' they tell me."

"'Amends,'" I said; "to whom? for what?"

"Welaway," said she, with a narrow fork between her brows; "to most
men and to all women, for being that Criseyde." She gazed half
solemnly at some picture of reverie.

"But which Criseyde?" I said. "She who was every wind's, or but one
perfect summer's?"

She glanced strangely at me. "Ask of the night that burns so many
stars," she said. "All's done; all passes. Yet my poor busy Uncle
Pandar had no such changes, nor Hector, nor ... Men change not: they
love and love again--one same tune of a myriad verses."

"All?" I said.

She tossed lightly a little dust from her hand.

"Nay--all," she replied; "but what is that to me? Mine only to see
Charon on the wave pass light over and return. Man of the green world,
prithee die not yet awhile! 'Tis dull being a shade. See these cold
palms! Yet my heart beats o