ief moment there surged
through him all he had suffered for her sake; the sleepless nights, the
days of doubts and misunderstandings! And it had come to this! Again he
was treated with contempt--again his heart and all it held was trampled
on. A wild protest rose in his throat and trembled on his lips.

At that instant she raised her eyes and looked into his. A look so
pleading--so patient--so weary of the struggle--so ready to receive the
blow--that the hot words recoiled in his throat. He bent his head to
search her eyes the better. Down in their depths, as one sees the bottom
of a clear pool he read the truth, and with it came a reaction that sent
the hot blood rushing through his veins.

"Sorry for you, my darling!" he burst out joyously--"I who love you like
my own soul! Oh, Ruth!--Ruth!--my beloved!"

He had her in his arms now, her cheek to his, her yielding body held
close.

Then their lips met.

The Scribe lays down his pen. This be holy ground on which we tread. All
she has she has given him: all the fantasies of her childhood, all the
dreams of her girlhood, all her trust, her loyalty--her reverence--all
to the very last pulsation of her being.

And this girl he holds in his arms! So pliant, so yielding, so pure and
undefiled! And the silken sheen and intoxicating perfume of her hair,
and the trembling lashes shading the eager, longing, soul-hungry eyes;
and the way the little pink ears nestle; and the fair, white, dovelike
throat, with its ripple of lace. And then the dear arms about his neck
and the soft clinging fingers that are intertwined with his own! And
more wonderful still, the perfect unison, the oneness, the sameness; no
jar, no discordant note; mind, soul, desire--a harmony.

The wise men say there are no parallels in nature; that no one thing in
the wide universe exactly mates and matches any other one thing; that
each cloud has differed from every other cloud-form in every hour of the
day and night, to-day, yesterday and so on back through the forgotten
centuries; that no two leaves in form, color, or texture, lift the same
faces to the sun on any of the million trees; that no wave on any beach
curves and falls as any wave has curved and fallen before--not since the
planet cooled. And so it is with the drift of wandering winds; with the
whirl and crystals of driving snow, with the slant and splash of rain.
And so, too, with the flight of birds; the dash and tumble of restless
brooks; the