mprehend, Faber caught the
hand of Juliet where it gleamed white in the gathering gloom. But she
withdrew it, saying in a tone which through the darkness seemed to him
to come from afar, tinged with mockery.

"You ought to have been a poet--not a doctor, Mr. Faber!"

The jar of her apparent coolness brought him back with a shock to the
commonplace. He almost shuddered. It was like a gust of icy wind
piercing a summer night.

"I trust the doctor can rule the poet," he said, recovering his
self-possession with an effort, and rising.

"The doctor ought at least to keep the poet from falsehood. Is false
poetry any better than false religion?" returned Juliet.

"I do not quite see--"

"Your day is not a true picture of life such as you would make it.--Let
me see! I will give you one.--Sit down.--Give me time.--'The morning is
dark; the mist hangs and will not rise; the sodden leaves sink under the
foot; overhead the boughs are bare; the cold creeps into bone and
marrow; let us love one another! The sun is buried in miles of vapor;
the birds sit mute on the damp twigs; the gathered drizzle slowly drips
from the eaves; the wood will not burn in the grate; there is a crust in
the larder, no wine in the cellar: let us love one another!'"

"Yes!" cried Faber, again seizing her hand, "let us but love, and I am
content!"

Again she withdrew it.

"Nay, but hear my song out," she said, turning her face towards the
window.--In the fading light he saw a wild look of pain, which vanished
in a strange, bitter smile as she resumed.--"'The ashes of life's
volcano are falling; they bepowder my hair; its fires have withered the
rose of my lips; my forehead is wrinkled, my cheeks are furrowed, my
brows are sullen; I am weary, and discontented, and unlovely: ah, let us
love one another! The wheels of time grind on; my heart is sick, and
cares not for thee; I care not for myself, and thou art no longer lovely
to me; I can no more recall wherefore I desired thee once; I long only
for the endless sleep; death alone hath charms: to say, Let us love one
another, were now a mockery too bitter to be felt. Even sadness is
withered. No more can it make me sorrowful to brood over the days that
are gone, or to remember the song that once would have made my heart a
fountain of tears. Ah, hah! the folly to think we could love to the end!
But I care not; the fancy served its turn; and there is a grave for thee
and me--apart or together I care not