orld, Clay, when I was willing you to
come."

Then there was one of those silences which come when words have shown
their absolute absurdity. It seemed a long time before he broke it.

"I'm not young, Audrey. And I have failed once."

"It takes two to make a failure," she said dauntlessly. "I--wouldn't let
you fail again, Clay. Not if you love me."

"If I love you!" Then he was, somehow, in that grotesque position that
is only absurd to the on-looker, on his knees beside her. His terrible
self-consciousness was gone. He only knew that, somehow, some way, he
must prove to her his humility, his love, his terrible fear of losing
her again, his hope that together they might make up for the wasted
years of their lives. "I worship you," he said.

The little room was a sanctuary. The war lay behind them. Wasted and
troubled years lay behind them. Youth, first youth, was gone, with its
illusions and its dreams. But before them lay the years of fulfilment,
years of understanding. Youth demanded everything, and was discontented
that it secured less than its demands. Now they asked but three things,
work, and peace, and love. And the greatest of these was love.

Something like that he said to her, when the first inarticulateness had
passed, and when, as is the way of a man with the woman who loves him,
he tried to lay his soul as well as his heart at her feet. The knowledge
that the years brought. That love in youth was a plant of easy growth,
springing up in many soils. But that the love of the middle span of a
man's life, whether that love be the early love purified by fire, or a
new love, sowed in sacrifice and watered with tears, the love that was
to carry a man and a woman through to the end, the last love, was God's
infinitely precious gift. A gift to take the place of the things that
had gone with youth, of high adventure and the lilt of the singing
heart.

The last gift.

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