ings that are not here--things
higher than the person of a poor maid."

"Cousin, in part you are right, for it is not only the maid whom
I love, but her spirit also. Oh, in truth, you are to me a
dream--a symbol of all that is noble, high and pure. In you and
through you, Rosamund, I worship the heaven I hope to share with
you."

"A dream? A symbol? Heaven? Are not these glittering garments to
hang about a woman's shape? Why, when the truth came out you
would find her but a skull in a jewelled mask, and learn to
loath her for a deceit that was not her own, but yours. Godwin,
such trappings as your imagination pictures could only fit an
angel's face."

"They fit a face that will become an angel's."

"An angel's? How know you? I am half an Eastern; the blood runs
warm in me at times. I, too, have my thoughts and visions. I
think that I love power and imagery and the delights of life--a
different life from this. Are you sure, Godwin, that this poor
face will be an angel's?"

"I wish I were as sure of other things. At least I'll risk it."

"Think of your soul, Godwin. It might be tarnished. You would not
risk that for me, would you?"

He thought. Then answered:

"No; since your soul is a part of mine, and I would not risk
yours, Rosamund."

"I like you for that answer," she said. "Yes; more than for all
you have said before, because I know that it is true. Indeed, you
are an honourable knight, and I am proud--very proud--that you
should love me, though perhaps it would have been better
otherwise." And ever so little she bent the knee to him.

"Whatever chances, in life or death those words will make me
happy, Rosamund."

Suddenly she caught his arm. "Whatever chances? Ah! what is about
to chance? Great things, I think, for you and Wulf and me.
Remember, I am half an Eastern, and we children of the East can
feel the shadow of the future before it lays its hands upon us
and becomes the present. I fear it, Godwin--I tell you that I
fear it."

"Fear it not, Rosamund. Why should you fear? On God's knees lies
the scroll of our lives, and of His purposes. The words we see
and the words we guess may be terrible, but He who wrote it knows
the end of the scroll, and that it is good. Do not fear,
therefore, but read on with an untroubled heart, taking no
thought for the morrow."

She looked at him wonderingly, and asked,

"Are these the words of a wooer or of a saint in wooer's weeds? I
know not, and do you know