how he had held himself aloof from her, or that some grain of
pride might well have met his coldness. She was kneeling beside him, her
hands about his neck, her head upon his breast.

"No, Osmond, no," she sobbed. "It would kill me."

The man sat still. Then he spoke, and his voice was hard as iron.

"It will never happen, I tell you."

"To have you tortured," she was sobbing. "To have them hurt you--your
hands, your dear hands--"

He lifted one of them, in a dazed way, and looked at it, all brown with
work and yet a wonder in its virile power. Then a flame passed over him
and burned up what kept him from her. His arms were about her and he
bent his mouth to hers. For the first time since he could remember, he
forgot what he had called his destiny. And after they had kissed, he
said,--

"Now, sweetheart, now we can talk. It's better so, even if we say
good-by to-morrow."

She drew apart from him and went back to her chair. But there she
stretched out her hands to him and Osmond took them, and so, holding
them, they spoke out their true minds. Her eyes were brimming full.

"I wasn't sure you would take my present," she said. "It's dear of you
to take it, Osmond."

"Your love, your wonderful love!"

"I selected it with great care, dear." She was laughing. "It's very
shiny, and nice, and warranted to last. It's the strongest love I could
find. I never saw one like it. Shall we live in the playhouse now,
dear?"

"You will live in my heart. Rose, I kissed you."

She bent to him.

"Kiss me again. Kisses are little blooms budding out of my love. You are
a gardener-man. You know the faster flowers are picked, the sooner they
bloom again."

He was regarding her in wonder.

"You must be crazy to think you like me!" he said honestly. Again she
laughed.

"I am! stark mad. I feel as if a thousand birds were singing and all the
lilies opening: You remember how they smelled that night, Osmond? You
wouldn't go with me to smell them. They've come to us. They're here."

He held her gaze.

"Be serious," he said.

"I can't, I like you so!"

"Only till I ask you this. You said once you had always been in love
with love."

"Always. Ought I to be ashamed of it? I am not. I am proud. To find the
half of you that you have been lonesome for, and then be faithful to
it,--oh, beautiful!"

"Are you in love with love, or are you in love with me?"

"With you, dear Osmond." The clear eyes answered him in a joyous
conf