t has loved will dream
even death too terrible a price to pay for the revelation of love. For
that revelation once made can never be recalled. As a little sprig of
lavender will perfume a queen's wardrobe, so will a short year of love
keep sweet a long life. And love's best gifts death can never take
away. Nay, indeed, death does not so much rob as enrich the gifts of
love. The dead face that was fair grows fairer each spring, sweet
memories grow more sweet, what was silver is now gold, and as years go
by, the very death of love becomes its immortality.

I think I shall never hear Elizabeth's voice again, never look into her
eyes, never kiss her dear lips--but Elizabeth is still mine, and I am
hers, as in that morning when we kissed in that little chancel amid the
flickering light, and passed out into the sun and down the lanes, to
our little home among the meadow-sweet.

She is still as real to me as the stars,--and, alas, as far away! I
think no thought that does not fly to her, I have no joys I do not
share with her, I tell her when the spring is here, and we sit beneath
the moon and listen to the nightjar together. Sometimes we are merry
together as in the old time, and our laughter makes nightfaring folk to
cross themselves; my work, my dreams, my loves, are all hers, and my
very sins are sinned for her sake.

Two years did Elizabeth and I know the love that passeth all
understanding, and day by day the chestnut upon her head was more and
the gold less, till the day came that she had prophesied, and with the
day a little child, whose hair had stolen all her mother's gold, as her
heart had drained away her mother's life.

Ah! reader, may it be long before you kneel at the bedside of her you
love best in the world, and know that of all your love is left but a
hundred heart-beats, while opposite sits Death, watch in hand, and
fingers upon her wrist.

"Husband," whispered Elizabeth, as we looked at each other for the last
time, "let her be your little golden girl..."

And then a strange sweetness stole over her face, and the dream of
Elizabeth's life was ended.

As I write I hear in the still house the running of little feet, a
fairy patter sweet and terrible to the heart.

Little feet, little feet--perhaps if I follow you I shall find again
our mother that is lost. Perhaps Elizabeth left you with me that I
should not miss the way.

Tout par soullas.

End of the Project Gutenberg EBook o